Revenge
by Alyssa Blackbourn
Summary: An old op of Jack's comes back to haunt him, and he and Mac are far from safe. Now Jack is faced with a nearly impossible decision; how far is he willing to go to save his best friend? Rated T for language and, knowing me, inevitable violence.
1. Exfil

Jack started to come to slowly, his head throbbing and ears ringing. What the hell happened? The last thing he remembered...he and Mac had just completed a mission in Brazil. Yeah...yeah, Brazil...and he was trying to convince Mac to stay for Carnaval. He wasn't going for it, the spoil sport. Woulda just been a little detour; nothing to get bent out of shape about. Sure, Matty might have had a fit, but it's Carnaval!

Wait, no, focus, Jack. If that was the last thing he remembered, what happened? They...they made it to their exfil. They got into the helicopter. Now where were they?

Slowly, he forced his eyes open, and when he did, his stomach dropped. He was nowhere he recognized. And worse, he was restrained. Handcuffs secured his wrists to each arm of the chair, while duct tape secured his ankles to each of the front legs. The room he was in was made of concrete and metal. Worst of all, he was alone; no Mac.

 _Okay, this is not looking good,_ he thought to himself, carefully lifting his head off his chest. Quickly, the former Delta began to take stock of himself. He could feel numerous bruises on his body—there wasn't a muscle in his body that wasn't sore. No broken bones, though, he was pretty sure, so that was good. Before he could even think of anything else, as he shifted uncomfortably in his hard metal seat, the door across from him opened wide. A man in boots, jeans, and a t-shirt walked in, smiling at him. He was about fifty-five, had dark, graying hair and dark brown eyes, and looked to be just a little bit taller than Jack.

"Jack Dalton," the man looked at him like a cat might look at a mouse. "It's been a long time."

"I'm sorry, have we met?" Jack raised an eyebrow at him. He did look vaguely familiar, but Jack couldn't place it.

"Oh, you're gonna hurt my feelings," the man chuckled. "You see, back in the day, you and all your little Delta buddies ruined my life. Destroyed my family. Killed my little brother, my cousins, my friends."

After studying the man for another moment, it clicked. Jack gave a smile and a small laugh, hiding how his stomach clenched. "Selam Asmara," he said finally, his mind still reeling over the fact that he couldn't see Mac, despite continuing to look around as subtly as he could. "I almost didn't recognize you without the beard and the accent and the handcuffs and the black eye courtesy of yours truly; when did you get out of that deep, dark hole we stashed you in?"

Jack grunted and flinched when Asmara backhanded him across the face.

"You should be a bit more respectful, Jack," Asmara warned. "After all, one of your friends from the helicopter is already dead; I'm sure you would hate it if the other one perished as well."

Jack felt his stomach drop. Even though he didn't look Asmara in the eye, he knew there was no hiding how the color drained from his face. There had been two people in the helicopter with him: the pilot, and Mac. Which one was already dead? He almost didn't want to know the answer. It would be bad enough if the pilot were dead, but Mac? Jack would never be able to forgive himself for letting that happen. Asmara chuckled, clearly amused at his silence.

"Don't look so upset, Jack," he grinned down at his captive as Jack's fists clenched tightly. The Phoenix agent's heart was pounding against his ribs, clearly revolting against his desire to stay calm. "After all, it's only fair. You killed a lot of my friends that day; why shouldn't I get to return the favor?"

At this, Jack couldn't keep his composure. He lunged at his captor as best he could, his wrists yanking violently at his restraints as he glared up at Asmara with hatred in his eyes, his blood only continuing to boil when the man laughed.

"Not so good when you get a taste of your own medicine, is it?" his captor sneered.

"Who survived?" Jack asked after a moment, his voice trembling with both rage and fear. "And what did you do with him?"

"All in due time, Jack," Asmara's sneer became a full smile before he walked over and grabbed one of the two other chairs in the room, this one having no arms on it. "First, I think we should have a chat."

Jack shifted uncomfortably in his chair, trying to calm himself down. If Mac was still alive—and he _had_ to be—then he was no use to him panicked. He needed to take a breath and analyze the situation, start looking for a way out for the both of them. As Asmara pulled the chair closer, Jack closed his eyes and took a slow deep breath, opening his eyes again when he heard his captor sit down across from him.

"There's something I think you can help me with," the man started, but Jack cut him off.

"Sorry; no can do, amigo," he shook his head. "I have a very strict policy against helping terrorists, traitors, and/or Redskins fans, and at least two of those apply to you, so you're out of luck with me."

Asmara laughed, actually seeming amused. But contrary to his expression, he delivered a powerful punch to Jack's stomach, knocking the air from his lungs. As Jack gasped to get air again, his captor resumed his seat.

"I need you to tell me where you sent my wife," the man told him, anger in his eyes. Jack looked up at him and smirked. That look alone was enough to push his captor over the edge. Asmara punched him brutally across the face. Jack groaned, pinching his eyes shut and spitting blood onto the floor, his already-pounding skull now practically screaming in pain.

"Oh, I would love nothing more than to kill you, Dalton," Asmara snarled. "But unfortunately for both of us, you have not outlived your usefulness."

"Well, darn," Jack grumbled, shaking his head to clear it.

"But if you're going to continue to be difficult," his captor continued with barely-contained rage in his words. "I'm going to have to get more creative."

Jack watched as he picked up a radio off his belt, saying something in a language the Phoenix agent didn't understand. But while he didn't understand the words used, he understood what was happening, and his heart again unwillingly picked up speed. His eyes shifted to the metal door on the opposite wall, hearing noises coming from outside it. This was it. He was about to find out which one of his companions survived to see the outside of that helicopter. Asmara watched him carefully, smiling to himself, as the door opened wide. Two men, each wearing a black t-shirt, cargo pants, and boots, walked into the room, dragging someone between them. When Jack saw that messy mop of blond hair, he fought to hide how much relief he felt. It was Mac. He was still alive. He could breathe again.

The former Delta watched as the two men shoved Mac into the only empty chair left in the room. It was identical to Jack's, with metal armrests. He stared at his friend, trying to catch his eye as the two guards went about restraining him, first zip-tying his wrists to the arms of the chair and then duct taping over the ties for good measure, finally taping his ankles to the legs of the chair. Mac, meanwhile, wasn't looking so good. His eyes seemed a million miles away, and there was a deep cut in his forehead. It didn't look to be bleeding anymore, but the side of his face was stained red. His breaths were short and shallow, seeming full of pain.

"I'll let you two get reacquainted for a few," Asmara announced as his guards finished taping Mac's shoulders to the chair's back. The three of them left the room, leaving the two prisoners alone as Mac continued to struggle to get his bearings.

"Jack," the younger man gasped as soon as he heard the door close. He pinched his eyes shut as he forced himself to lift his head, prying his eyelids apart as much as he dared. "That you?"

"Hey, kid," Jack let out a trembling sigh and forced a smile. "Long time, no see."


	2. Phoenix, We Have a Problem

"How're you holding up?"

"I don't..." Mac's head was spinning. He'd broken at least one bone, he knew, and wasn't entirely sure which one; his whole body felt like one giant bruise. "I'm honestly not sure."

"Okay, okay; just take it slow," Jack advised, trying to sound calm. He could tell that Mac was already freaking out, the combination of his head wound, their unfamiliar surroundings, and knowing that they were—for the time being—completely at the mercy of their captor undoubtedly weighing on him, and if they were going to make it out of there, at least one of them had to keep it together. "What do you remember?"

"Ahm..." Mac hesitated, clearly thinking hard. "We finished the mission, we made it to our exfil, and...I think we crashed, Jack. Something happened to the pilot...it happened so fast, I couldn't..."

"Okay, easy, there, Mac; we're gonna get out of this just fine, don't worry. But from the looks of it, that big brain of yours has got a pretty nasty bruise, so don't exert yourself too much," the older man warned.

"Yeah, sure, I'll just sit here and relax for a while," Mac rolled his eyes until the sudden movement made his stomach pitch. He let his eyelids fall shut for a few seconds, trying to steady his vision, taking a few deep breaths to slow his heart rate down a notch. When he opened his eyes again, the world appeared much more stable, even though his thoughts were still slow and his head still throbbed painfully. He recalled the helicopter, remembered waking up despite having no recollection of falling asleep in the first place. He'd looked out and noticed that they were losing altitude fast, that the trees were coming up beneath them, as if reaching out to pull them to the ground. He'd gotten out of his seat, releasing the harness that tethered him to it, and tried to shake Jack awake, but his friend refused to stir. So, he'd stumbled up to the pilot, checked his pulse—finding him still alive but again unable to wake him—and tried to take the controls, tried to save their doomed voyage, but he was too late. They'd crashed, and Mac, unrestrained, had been tossed around like a rag doll, eventually losing consciousness again. "Jack, I think we were drugged. We fell asleep in the helicopter. I couldn't wake you or the pilot up."

"Well, that explains why I don't remember a thing," Jack nodded. "How long have you been up?"

"Only a few minutes," the younger agent shook his head slowly. "They had me in a room down the hall. You know what happened to the pilot?"

"Pilot's dead, Mac," Jack told him, his voice and expression grave. Across from him, Mac's jaw twitched, and he shifted in his chair, trying to keep his composure—or at least pretend to. It took a couple moments for him to speak.

"Any idea who the hell this guy is?" he asked, looking around the room, his slow, concussed brain already trying to think up an escape.

"Oh, I've got more than an idea," Jack sighed wearily. "His name's Selam Asmara. He's an American citizen—or, maybe not, now—wait, no, actually, you can't revoke the citizenship of a second-generation American, can you? Because I feel like you can't, so he probably still is, although he might have renounced—"

"Jack, focus," Mac interrupted.

"Right. Forgot he was born in Michigan, is all. Only ever really knew him when he was living out in the deserts of the Middle East. Anyway, he was a good guy for most of his life, smart guy, graduated college and went on to be kind of the man in the chair for a bunch of classified ops—like a version of Nikki or Riley. He didn't have a hand in any of my ops, but a bunch of my buddies put their lives in his hands. And then this rat bastard started leaking that intel to the enemy. A lot of good people died. By the time they figured out it was him, he'd run off to join his whackjob terrorist cousins in a little hole in the middle of the desert."

"I'm assuming you found him," Mac prompted when his friend got quiet.

"Well, not me, but yeah," Jack nodded. "My team and I raided the camp. Took out most of those assholes. Arrested two of them: Selam and his uncle. Uncle died in a detention camp a few years back. Don't have any idea how Selam's out now, but however it happened...I'm real sorry you got dragged into this, Mac..."

"Nah, it's okay, Jack," the young man gave a painful shrug. "We'll get out of this. You said so yourself."

"I know," Jack agreed, refusing to let Mac see that he was even the slightest bit nervous. "And I meant what I said. But until we do, we're gonna have to draw this out as long as we can, give ourselves a chance to figure a way out and the others a chance to find us. I hate to ask this of you, brother, but are you ready to do that?"

"I am if you are," Mac offered, determination in his dazed expression. Jack gave a small smile, and was about to respond when the door opened wide.

"Alright," Selam sighed, walking into the room followed by the same two men who'd dragged Mac in, and sat down in the chair he'd been using, spinning it around so he sat on it backwards between his two captives. "Now that you two have gotten reacquainted, let's get down to business."

* * *

"Hey, Matty," Riley sounded uneasy when she spoke, walking into her boss's office with her laptop ever present in her arm. "We have a serious problem."

"Five words I just love hearing," Matilda Webber sighed, motioning for Riley to sit down.

"Mac and Jack never made their flight back from Brazil," Riley told her, sitting down in the chair across from her as Matty walked around to look over her shoulder. "Neither one of them is answering coms, I can't find their cell phones, and both the helicopter and the pilot are missing, too."

"Where were they the last time you talked to them?"

"Right here," Riley showed her the location on her screen. It was over a dense forest. "That was the last place I was able to trace their phones to."

Matty frowned at the screen, thinking. She wanted to believe that they were just delayed for one reason or another, that their phones weren't working, that they'd taken out their coms and just didn't hear Riley calling to them. But all of those things happening at the same time _and_ no one can contact or find the helicopter itself or the pilot? The odds of that happening were astronomical. Riley was right; they had a serious problem.

"Tell Cage to hurry up and get her cast set," she ordered. A couple days prior, on another mission, Cage had broken her left hand and didn't get it checked out until the day before Mac and Jack went to Brazil, when she'd finally accepted that the pain and swelling weren't going away and that there was something wrong with it. It had needed surgery at that point, taking her out of the mission in Brazil entirely. "I want her, you, and Bozer on a flight to Brazil in twenty minutes; I'm sending agents to their last known location now, and I want you three to rendezvous with them when you get there."

"Yes, Ma'am," Riley nodded, trying to hide her uneasiness. But, it was nearly impossible to hide things from Matty, and the director put a hand on the young woman's arm before she stood up.

"I'm sure they're fine, Riley," she assured her, eyes full of understanding. "And if something did happen, they can handle themselves. They're some of the best agents in the world; they're going to be fine."

Riley let out a breath, wanting more than anything to believe her words, and nodded. Offering a grateful half-smile, she left the room, heading off to find her colleagues.

* * *

 **Totally blown away by all the support for this. I'll try to update as often as I can, but it's just about time for finals and final projects, so I'm going to have to prioritize that (sorry; maybe I should have waited to post this, but this is how I procrastinate).**


	3. Pen

"Now, Jack," Asmara sighed, smirking as both captives looked over at his guards uneasily, watching them pull in a wire cart in from the hallway, their faces paling at the sight of the tools laid out on its surface. "Are you going to tell me where you've hidden my dear Victoria, or are things going to start getting unpleasant for your friend?"

Jack tore his eyes away from both the tools and Mac, glancing over at Asmara and giving an easy laugh.

"You know, as flattered as I am at the fact that you're so afraid to come after me that you'd rather go after the kid, even if I wanted to help you, I couldn't," the older agent told him, maintaining his poker face. "And frankly, it's not a good look, you chasing after a girl who made her disgust of you very clear. Pretty desperate."

Asmara smirked, glancing over at one of his companions, the one that had been slowly drifting towards Jack as he was talking. As if on command, the man punched Jack brutally across the face, his fist making contact with his temple, making him see stars. The older agent grunted in pain, grimacing, and across the room, Mac's jaw twitched, his fists tightening as he pulled against his restraints.

"Oh, Jack," Asmara shook his head. "I really did miss you. I thought about you all the time as I was rotting away in that...hole you shoved me in, as you call it, although I think 'hole' is a bit of a generous term. I thought about how you kept cracking jokes as you were taking me away, how you took my wife away from me, how you shot my family in front of me...we have so many memories, the two of us."

"Hey, now, your 'family' was trying to kill me," Jack raised an eyebrow at him. "No need to get upset just because I won. That's what we call a 'sore loser.'"

Mac bit his tongue, looking down at his feet in anger, knowing exactly what his friend was doing. Asmara again signalled his companion, who again punched Jack in the ribs. Mac's eyes closed for a second when he heard Jack yelp.

Asmara watched Jack gasping in his chair, still smiling.

"I had a lot of time to think during my time in that hole, Jack," he said after a few moments of silence. "About what I was going to do when I found my way out...who I was going to punish for my suffering, and how...Your name kept popping up in my head, over and over and over again. I have been plotting this day for _years_."

"Well, good for you," Jack rolled his eyes, his voice thin and breathy. "Happy to be the six-fingered man to your Inigo Montoya."

Again, Asmara laughed, and in spite of himself, Mac cracked a smile from across the room. "Funny. Always funny. But, see, I'm telling you this, Jack, so you can realize that I'm not falling for this little game you're trying to play."

"And what game is that?"

"The one where you try insulting me and engaging me so that I forget all about your little buddy over there."

Mac shifted uncomfortably as Jack shook his head, never missing a beat.

"I don't have any idea what you're talkin' about," he denied. "I'm not sayin' anything that ain't true; not my fault if you can't handle it. What's that old saying? If you can't take the heat, don't be a terrorist?"

Asmara's smile never once faded as the guard, once again, punched the captive, this time making him spit blood onto the floor.

"Don't get me wrong, Jack," Asmara reached out and patted the older man on the shoulder twice. "If you want my friend, here, to keep beating you, I'm more than happy to oblige. But, see, I am not going to be distracted from my goal. That's why I brought two friends with me, instead of just one."

Jack's face paled, looking over at Mac even as he tried desperately to keep his poker face. The younger man looked back at him, still a little dazed but having recovered enough to know what was happening. Mac's face was reassuring, even as his eyes showed a glint of fear.

"So," Asmara continued as the guard closest to Mac examined the array of tools on the cart beside him thoughtfully. "One last chance. Where did you send Victoria?"

"Man, you know that even if I wanted to tell you, I couldn't," Jack reminded him.

"Oh, but you're a smart guy, Jack," Asmara grinned. "I'm sure you could think of something that could help me find her. But if you're not feeling motivated yet, that's alright; I've got time."

Mac's jaw clenched, shifting in his chair, unable to take his eyes off of the man beside him. Eventually, after getting the nonverbal okay from Asmara, he selected an electric baton, and in one swift motion, he turned it on and jabbed it into MacGyver's ribcage. The young Phoenix agent grunted but was unable to scream, the electricity strangling his lungs.

Jack gave a start, pulling at the handcuffs on his wrists as his friend went rigid in his chair. It felt like hours had passed before he finally let Mac go, allowing him to finally draw air into his lungs.

"You know, Jack, I don't think your friend is going to last too long," Asmara told him casually, his arms resting on the back of his chair and his chin resting on his arms. "He's not looking too great."

He was right; Mac looked awful. His skin was pale, his eyes were still distant and foggy, and he was trembling. Granted, most of this was true before he was electrocuted, but that didn't make Asmara's statements any less accurate. Jack glared at the man he'd once arrested, hate in his eyes, while across the room, Mac shook his head.

"I'm fine, Jack," he assured his friend, ignoring how badly his previous injuries hurt, the shock having only made them worse. Jack tore his eyes from Asmara to look at him, a helplessness in his gaze that hurt almost as bad as the electricity.

"You have a brave partner," Asmara chuckled, smiling venomously. "Probably a bit overconfident, though; you and I know how creative I can be, right, Jack? Remind me again, what happened to the last buddy of yours I got my hands on?"

"You better watch your mouth," Jack snapped, frustrated and angry.

"Or what?" Asmara challenged, lifting his head. Jack didn't answer, his jaw tightening. His captor raised his eyebrows, smirking at him. "No, really; what will you do? You have no leverage. You have nothing to bargain except the information I'm asking for. You have nothing, Dalton. Accept it."

"Or what?" Mac countered from across the room, making Asmara—and the two guards, and Jack—turn to him in surprise. "What does he have to gain from either accepting that he has nothing, according to you, or from telling you what you want to know? You're never going to let either one of us go. He has nothing to gain by helping you."

"Oh, that's not true at all," Asmara denied, standing up and walking towards him. Mac fought to hide his uneasiness, adjusting his position in his chair. "I mean, yes, he's definitely going to die, here, but you? I have no real issue with you. You, I'd let go, after I got my hands on Victoria."

"Mmm-hmm," Mac forced his face to relax as he looked up at him. "And of course, we're just going to believe the known traitor."

"That is a fair point," Asmara admitted, smiling and pacing away from him. "But what you fail to realize is that a person can only take so much, and I'm not talking about you; even if I'm lying—and I'm not—if he tells me what I want to know, he will at least be able to stop having to watch you suffer."

Across the room, Jack's head dropped forward, his jaw tight with frustration as Mac swallowed hard, watching their captor. He didn't even notice the man beside him grab a knife until he took the weapon and balanced the tip delicately on the top of his thigh, positioned towards the outside part of the limb, making Mac's breath freeze in this throat.

"So, Jack," Asmara turned his attention back to his hated enemy. "What were you saying about Victoria?"

"I wasn't," Jack grumbled, not looking up. Asmara glanced at the man beside Mac, and obediently, the man started pushing the blade slowly into the young man's thigh. Mac grit his teeth, drawing a sharp breath as his head fell back, swallowing a cry of pain until he couldn't hold it back anymore, picking his head up as he screamed, his tight fists pulling at his restraints. Jack flinched back from the sound as it slammed into his ears like a semi. As much as he tried—and, God, he was _really_ trying—MacGyver couldn't stop screaming until the blade was buried in his flesh up to the handle. Only then did his screams turn to groans, which eventually turned to gasps.

Hearing him get quiet again, Jack slowly looked over at him, his heart pounding, and his stomach lurched when he saw him. Sweat had broken out on Mac's brow. Blood was seeping from the wound in his leg and leaking onto the chair. Tears were falling almost involuntarily from the younger man's eyes, and his trembling had only gotten worse. Each breath shook and it looked as though every muscle was tense as he undoubtedly continued to try and suppress the agony he was feeling. His eyes were clamped shut and his lips were pulled back from his clenched teeth.

"Jack," Asmara spoke up, clearly enjoying the devastation on the older man's face. "Where's Victoria?"

"It was over twenty years ago, man," Jack growled. "Even if I knew where she was then, it's not like I retained that information."

"I think you did," Asmara told him.

"I didn't."

"Then your friend will suffer."

"You know, maybe if you didn't always go after the easy, innocent target, she might not have turned you in and left your sorry ass."

The former Delta yelped when the guard standing next to him backhanded him. Across the room, Mac tensed at the sound, unable to bring himself to look up, trying desperately to calm down and think clearly. His concussed brain was fighting him at every turn, only seeming able to focus on the pain.

"You're wasting your time," Jack said finally, breaking the short silence that had fallen over the room. "I don't know where to find Victoria. It was too long ago; I don't remember much about it. I barely remember what I had for breakfast this morning."

"Pancakes," Mac spoke up, his voice surprisingly strong as he forced his eyes to open and his body to relax as much as possible, looking over at them.

"That's right," Jack nodded thoughtfully. "Those were damn good, too..."

"Enough," Asmara closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. After a moment, he waved a hand at the guy standing next to Mac, and the young agent tensed right back up. The guard reached over and grabbed the handle of the knife, slowly twisting it in the wound, forcing Mac to scream again, the sound utterly heartbreaking to the former Delta across from him, though not nearly as heartbreaking as the sight of the young man he'd come to see as a brother. Now that the wound was opened and the blade was no longer acting as a cork, more blood was flowing from the injury, now dripping from the chair and onto the floor. After what felt like hours, the guard finally ripped the blade free, earning one more agonized cry from the younger captive before the cries became painful moans.

This time, though, he didn't get a break. Instead, his torturer punched him brutally across the face, slamming into his jaw before following up with another head hit, this one connecting with his temple and making his brain throb painfully. The man's fists seemed to come from all directions, hitting his head, his ribs, his stomach, his chest—wherever they could manage to connect. Jack pulled furiously on the restraints around his wrists, desperate to get to his friend's side, shouting every profanity he could think of at both the guard hurting him and their captor. His struggles got so intense that eventually, Asmara had the guard watching him tape the older man's shoulders to the back of the chair, a task that proved difficult with how hard he was fighting. It took what felt like hours for Asmara to finally tell the other guard to stop, but a quick glance at his watch told Jack that it had only been about ten minutes. By then, Mac's nose was bleeding, his lip was split, his jaw and cheek were bruised, there was a bruise on his left temple, his breathing sounded loud and labored, and his eyes seemed more distant than ever—and all that was just what Jack could see and hear.

"I hate to break it to you, Jack, but your brave partner's not looking so brave anymore," Asmara observed, frowning in mock concern.

"Oh, shut up," Mac grumbled, rolling his eyes. As a reward for his words, his torturer jabbed the electric baton into his side, and the young agent's body seized up again for a few seconds until he pulled it back. Mac coughed and gasped, but still forced himself to look over at Jack reassuringly. Jack forced a small half-smile in return.

"Let's give them a moment," Asmara sighed, standing up and gesturing for his two companions to follow him out of the room, which they did, taking the cart of tools with them (much to both agents' dismay).

"Mac," Jack started talking the second the door closed, concern on his face. "You okay, buddy? You holding up?"

Mac didn't respond verbally, but he nodded, shifting painfully in his seat and spitting blood onto the cold concrete floor.

"I'm so sorry," the former Delta sounded distraught now that Asmara was out of the room. "You never should have gotten dragged into this. I'm so sorry."

"Don't be sorry, Jack," MacGyver shot him a grin—a genuine one—as he settled into his chair. Jack looked at him in confusion.

"How're you so chipper?" he asked. "You just got the holy hell beat outta you!"

"Because," Mac gave a painful laugh, his left hand quickly inching something out from under it. Jack stared at the object, completely bewildered, as his partner continued to smile. "I got a pen."


	4. Supply Closet

Samantha Cage surveyed the wreck site, her blue eyes calculating, her left arm across her body and her right hand by her face, one finger resting on the corner of her mouth. Other agents were milling about, some armed, some strictly techs. Riley and Bozer were set up at their new command post just beyond the treeline. The area was lit up with floodlights to help ward off the inky blackness of the night. The crash was horrific; pieces of the helicopter were strewn about—some of them on fire. The helicopter itself was a mangled mess of metal in the middle of the small clearing. The pilot was dead; when they crashed, a tree branch went right through the front window and practically impaled him. And there was no sign of Mac or Jack.

 _Hell of a time to break your hand_ , Cage thought, kicking herself for not being there for her new friends. Although, looking at the crash, maybe it was better that she wasn't there.

"Cage," Riley's voice jolted her from her thoughts. She was on coms with her, Bozer, and Matty. "What've you found?"

"Not much," Cage reported grimly. "There's nothing I can see as to why it went down; it's as if the pilot just stopped flying. He was definitely alive when they crashed, so I can't understand why that might have happened. He was still strapped into his seat; there's no indication of a struggle."

"Any sign of them?" Matty asked, referring to their missing friends. At the same moment, Cage noticed drag marks in the damp ground, two sets, each marked on either side by heavy boot prints.

"No," Cage shook her head, electing not to tell them about the tracks as she turned on her flashlight and started following them, not with Riley and Bozer on the line. "Not that I can see yet, but I'm still looking. There's blood in the cabin of the helicopter, but not so much that I'm worried one of them might be...Anyway, according to the techs, some of it—the smaller sample—is O negative, and the larger sample is AB negative. The pilot is B positive."

"So Mac is the source of the larger sample," Matty concluded, her voice ever steady.

"I believe so," Cage nodded. "The team said the door was open when they got here, so, best case scenario, they survived the crash and went looking for help. Mac's phone is here, smashed to hell, but it's possible that happened in the crash. No sign of Jack's."

"Wherever it is, it's off or dead," Riley reported. "Or completely out of range; I can't find it anywhere."

"Cage, don't sugarcoat it for us," Bozer spoke up, his stomach in knots ever since he found out Mac and Jack were missing. "What do you think happened?"

Cage hesitated, biting her lip before she let out a sigh. "There are drag marks coming from the crash site. I'm following them now. There...there are two sets."

"And since the pilot is still in the chopper..." Riley trailed off, her face paling and her hands freezing over her keyboard.

"Then the drag marks probably belong to Mac and Jack," Matty finished her thought.

"Exactly," Cage agreed. She continued following the tracks, the others waiting anxiously for her report, until she let out a disheartened sigh.

"Tracks stop at a river," she told them, standing on the river bank. "They could be anywhere, now."

Matty's jaw set, but she took a breath. "Riley, I want you to gather as much satellite data as you can from that area and all along that river starting from the second the helicopter went offline," she ordered. "Cage, start searching along the river in both directions; have the agents I sent help you. Bozer, join Cage. We need to find them. Now."

* * *

"I have so many questions right now," Jack admitted, watching his close friend show off the pen. "But I guess I'll start with 'how did you get that?' and 'how does that help us?'"

"It was sticking out of my guy's pocket," Mac explained, still smiling. "I grabbed it while he was beating the holy hell out of me, as you so quaintly put it. And come on, Jack; what can't I do with a pen?"

"That's a fair point," Jack allowed with a laugh, hope beginning to swell in his chest.

"Hey, did you adjust your watch for Brazil's time?" Mac asked.

"Yeah."

"What time is it?"

"Oh..." Jack glanced at his watch. "About midnight. Why?"

"You think Asmara and his buddies called it a night?"

"Well, it was a short day if they have."

"It's not like we gave them much choice; our exfil was at seven, and God knows how long we were out. I'm sure tomorrow will be a lot longer, if we're still here."

Now as sure as he could possibly be that their captor was not going to walk in and catch him with his stolen tool, Mac very carefully took the cap off of the rollerball pen and placed it tightly on the end of the pen. Then, he took the pen's sharp tip and started poking a series of holes in the duct tape, very close together, in a line with the locking mechanism of the cable tie underneath. Eventually, when the thick rounds of tape were weakened enough, he was able to break them, using the pen as a lever.

"Well, now what?" Jack challenged. "All that and you're still stuck."

"Your optimism is overwhelming," Mac rolled his eyes, taking the pen and—again, very carefully, knowing that just about the worst thing he could do in this situation was drop the pen—putting it back under his hand and wrist, keeping it in place while he pried the metal pocket clip out of the lid. After several tense minutes of pulling at it, it finally came free, and Mac grinned. He straightened out the clip's slight curve, then took the end and pushed it into the locking mechanism, pushing the rachet up and away from the rack. This allowed him to simply pull on the tie and let the end slip out of the lock, freeing his left hand.

"Ha ha!" Jack fought to keep his voice down, excitement on his face as MacGyver went about repeating the process—much faster this time—on his right wrist, before starting to work away at the tape on his shoulders and ankles. "That's my boy. Hurry up; let's get the hell out of here."

"Agreed," Mac smirked. When he finally freed himself, he shoved the pen and severed pocket clip into his pocket and then slowly, carefully started to stand up. The pain in every movement was excruciating, and his right leg was forced to take all his weight. The room spun the second he straightened up, and he quickly grabbed the chair again to steady himself.

"Easy, easy, Mac," Jack said slowly. Mac grit his teeth, taking a few quick breaths before stumbling the six feet between him and his friend. He nearly made it, but his leg gave out, unable to support him.

"Mac," the older agent fought to keep his voice down as Mac bit down hard on his cheek, swallowing a scream and rolling onto his back, every previous injury back in full force, his adrenaline depleted. "Mac, buddy, c'mon man...I know you're hurting, but we need to get out. If you get caught out of your chair like this, I don't even want to think what they're gonna do to you. You with me, buddy?"

Mac pried his pitiful blue eyes open to look at him, the expression on his face almost physically painful to witness. The young man forced a nod, rolling onto his right side and crawling the rest of the way over to him, dragging his left leg along behind him. Knowing he needed to work quickly, Mac forced his mind to clear as much as it possibly could, getting his attention on their task. He went about freeing his friend's ankles from the tape and handed the pen to him to hold while he used the pocket clip to pick the lock on the cuffs around his wrists. With his hands freed, Jack made quick work of the tape around his shoulders, immediately getting up and dropping to the ground beside his partner.

"Mac," he said urgently, his face full of concern. MacGyver was lying on his back again, looking absolutely exhausted as he tried to keep his eyes open. "Hey, Mac, buddy, stay with me. We gotta get out of here, man, and I can't do this without you. You good?"

"No," Mac answered honestly.

"Good," Jack nodded. "At least you know it. C'mon; we gotta go."

Mac grunted as Jack pulled him to his feet, putting his left arm around his shoulders so that the younger man could use him as a crutch. Jack's right arm wrapped carefully around his friend's midsection, ever aware of his broken ribs, and together, the two of them made their way towards the door. As they expected but were still disappointed to find, the door was locked.

"Now what?" Jack asked. Mac looked around the room, his throbbing brain trying to think of something. "Can't you just use the little clippy thing from the pen?"

"No," Mac shook his head and instantly regretted it, his face scrunching in pain. "Handcuff locks are easy to pick, Jack; a real lock takes more than a pen."

"So, open a locked door," Jack concluded. When Mac looked at him in confusion, he elaborated, "That's what you can't do with a pen."

In spite of himself, Mac laughed. "Shut up."

"Never."

Mac didn't say anything, still smiling as he looked around. Finally, his eyes stopped scanning.

"Hey, get me that lightbulb, would you?" he asked, pointing to the ceiling. Jack nodded dutifully, carefully leaning him up against the wall before going to retrieve the bulb, using his shirt to avoid getting his fingers burned.

"Thanks," Mac took the bulb from him, holding it by the metal base, and smashed it against the wall. Jack jumped back, astonished as Mac blew on the inside of the bulb a few times to cool it, then plucked the filament support wires out and used them to start picking the lock. In about a minute, he'd gotten the door open.

"I gotta tell ya, Mac," Jack grinned, ducking under his arm again and supporting his weight. "You never cease to amaze me."

Carefully, quietly, the former Delta opened the door, leaning out first to make sure no one was there. The hallway was empty, so he helped Mac walk out.

"W-w-wait," Mac stammered. His eyes were on the wire cart full of tools, left waiting in the hallway for when their captor was ready to use them again. Trying not to think about what any one of those tools could do to him, he took stock of what he had available. But before he could say what he needed, Jack left him leaning against the wall and started taking everything off the top shelf and putting it on the bottom one.

"Hop on," he ordered. "We're taking the whole thing."

Mac smiled slightly to himself, accepting Jack's offered hand and sitting down on the metal cart, putting his leg up and almost involuntarily leaning back against Jack. Without a word, the older agent began pushing him down the hall at a brisk pace.

"You have any idea where we're going?" Mac asked him.

"Not a clue, but anywhere's better than that room," Jack replied, turning a corner. It appeared he spoke too soon, because they started to hear voices up ahead, coming closer. Mac frantically pointed to a door on their right, and Jack quickly ducked inside, pulling his friend inside with him and silently closing the door. The former Delta grabbed a knife from the bottom of the cart and stood flat against the wall beside the door in the darkness, his weapon at the ready should anyone open the door. But, the voices soon passed them without incident, and both men relaxed.

"Okay, let's go," Jack went to open the door, but Mac stopped him.

"Jack, wait," he said quietly. "Turn on the light."

The older man hesitated for only a minute before following his instructions. With the space around them now illuminated, Mac couldn't help but smile. They were in a supply closet.

* * *

 **Whaaaattt? Two chapters in as many days? This can only mean one thing: I am procrastinating like HELL.  
I just don't WANNA write my art history paper; I don't WANNA.  
Anyway, please let me know what you thought!**


	5. Mop, Umbrella, and Shoe

"Oh, boy, I know that look," Jack grinned. "We're in a little playground for you, aren't we?"

"Yep," Mac smiled, already going to work, selecting a mop and an umbrella with a curved handle. Jack just sat back and watched, leaning against the wall with his knife in hand as Mac stood up carefully with the mop, measured the length he'd need, then took a saw from the bottom of the tool cart and cut off the excess from the side with the mop on it. Then, he quickly pried off the curved part of the umbrella's handle. From there it was just a matter of affixing the umbrella handle to the wooden mop handle—which he did by pushing the straight piece of wood into the hollow part of the curve and securing it with duct tape—and voila: a cane. After testing it and finding that it had a tendency to slip on the smooth floor, he quickly grabbed an abandoned boot and removed the thick heel using a chisel he found in a tool box. He put the flat end of the cane on top of the rubber heel and, still utilizing the sharp chisel, carved away the excess rubber at a radius larger than that of the cane, slightly fanned out from the shaft, giving it a broader base. Borrowing Jack's knife, he hollowed out the middle just wide enough to fit the cane. He used some epoxy he found behind the toolbox and poured a little into the hole, covering the sides, before pressing the cane firmly into the cavity. One more test proved that he'd constructed a slip-proof cane.

His mobility taken care of and having found new energy from solving a problem, regaining some control over his situation, and being surrounded by so many raw materials full of possibilities, Mac started searching the room, and smiled again when he found Jack's phone and his pocket knife in a cardboard box on the top shelf. After reclaiming the knife, he turned his attention to the phone.

"Jack," he said quickly, calling his friend over. Jack joined him, and his eyes lit up upon seeing the device before his face set with annoyance.

"Oh, of course it's my phone you find," he grumbled. "So now my phone gets to become whatever it is you're thinking about making. How come it's never your phone?"

"If it makes you feel any better, since mine's not here, I'm pretty sure it was destroyed in the crash," Mac offered with a scoff. He frowned when the device refused to turn on.

"It's probably dead," Jack shrugged. "It was getting real low when we got into the helicopter."

Mac sighed, looking around again, his energy already starting to fail him; his body was just exhausted, unable to keep churning out more adrenaline and energy after all he'd been through. He was just so tired; he wanted nothing more than to just go to sleep, and even the fear of knowing what would happen if they got caught wasn't enough to force him to keep going. Jack noticed him fading and quickly jumped in.

"Hey, now, just take it easy, Mac," he advised. "Tell me what you need; I'll take care of it."

"Okay, ahm..." Mac tried to think past the fog settling over him, fighting through it desperately. "I need wire cutters, electrical tape, a flashlight, and do you still have the pocket clip from that pen?"

"Yeah," Jack nodded, pulling it from his pocket and handing it to him. "I'm on it."

Jack quickly went about gathering the supplies as Mac grabbed a pair of pliers from the bottom of the cart, feeling his body starting to crash from his adrenaline high. When Jack placed all of the requested items in front of the younger agent, Mac shook his head, blinking a few times to refocus. He carefully removed the back of Jack's phone using the pocket clip, ignoring his partner's good-natured protests, and took out the battery, setting it and the phone aside. He then turned his attention to the flashlight, taking out the batteries and setting them aside before unscrewing the top and using the pliers to take out all the innards. He removed two wires, one red and one black, from the bundles of lights and metal, then discarded the rest of it. He took the wires and used the wire cutters to strip them at both ends. Then, he took the electrical tape and taped one end of the red wire to the positive end of the battery, and one end of the black wire to the negative end. When that was done, he grabbed the phone again and matched up the red wire with the positive battery pin and the black wire with the negative battery pin. Finally, he took the cell phone's battery and put it back in the phone, having to fight a little bit since the wires were under the pins, but eventually, he got it back in and turned the phone over, waiting anxiously as he stared at the screen. Both men had to fight to stay quiet when it proved to be charging.

"Alright, now, while that's charging, let's take a look at that leg," Jack suggested, although he wasn't asking. He helped Mac up onto the cart again, examining the wound in his friend's leg. It was still bleeding, so Jack went and grabbed a dish towel, tying it tight around the injury and apologizing when Mac gave a muffled grunt of pain.

"Hopefully that'll help stop the bleeding," he sighed, standing back up. "I guess until that phone charges, we're not going anywhere."

"Yeah, probably a good idea," Mac agreed, breathing hard and slouching forward. After a second or two of silence, he spoke again.

"Hey Jack?"

"Mmm?"

"What did Asmara mean when he said 'remind me again what happened to the last buddy of yours I got my hands on?'"

Jack was quiet for several seconds. When he spoke, his voice had a somber tone that Mac wasn't used to hearing.

"There was another team that my team often worked with back in the day," he explained. "Guy on that team named Charlie Duncan—he was a good friend of mine. Loved the guy like a brother. Well, the intel that we got that led to Asmara's capture wasn't the first lead we got on him; before that, we got what sounded like good intel saying he was some other place entirely, and Charlie's team went to go check it out."

Mac could already tell where this was going, and his stomach lurched, looking at Jack with immense sympathy, but his friend wouldn't meet his eyes.

"It was a massacre," Jack told him. "Every last one of them, dead. Except for Charlie and one other guy, Danny Black; we never found their bodies. Not until we went and arrested Asmara. Charlie and Danny...they were in one of the buildings. They'd been tortured mercilessly. Danny was still alive, but Charlie...We were too late to save Charlie. Then, to top it all off, Danny slipped into a coma and died two months later."

"God, Jack..." Mac stared at him in horror. "I'm so sorry..."

"Yeah," the older man nodded, still not looking up at him. "Asmara got a real kick out of it when he realized they were my friends."

"Of course he did," Mac shook his head.

"Well, hell if I'm gonna let that happen to you," Jack finally looked up at him, determination and a fierce protectiveness in his eyes. "I promise, Mac, I'm gonna get you home, whatever it takes."

"Okay, but..." a weary sigh slipped past Mac's lips. "You can't give up anything about that girl, Jack. No matter what he does, if we get caught again, you can't give her up. He's going to kill her the second he gets his hands on her; you know that. If we don't make it out of here, you can't give her up."

"I know," Jack nodded, although there was uncertainty in his eyes.

"Jack, promise me," the younger man implored. "Promise me you won't give her up. She helped bring Asmara in; she deserves our protection."

He was right, and Jack knew it. But still, he wasn't so sure that, if it came down to it, if he would choose saving some girl he met for just a few hours over twenty years ago over his best friend, his brother. He knew that, if their escape failed and they ended up back in that room, he probably wasn't going to make it out alive, but Mac didn't have to share that fate, if Asmara was telling the truth. He probably wasn't; he knew that. But what if he was? Finally, Jack shook his head.

"Well, I wasn't lying when I said I didn't know anything that could help him find her," he sighed. "So I guess we don't have to worry about that."

"Good," Mac nodded in approval. On the cart beside him, Jack's phone had finally powered up enough to turn on, and Mac pounced on it, scooping it up while making sure to take the battery with it. His face fell as soon as he unlocked the device.

"Wait how did you know my password?" Jack shot him a look.

"Of course I know your password, Jack," Mac rolled his eyes. "It's not like you ever try to hide it."

"Okay, you know what? Just hurry up and call in the cavalry, will ya?"

"I can't. We have no signal."

Jack deflated, then, all optimism seeming to leave him. "If we go out that door looking for a signal, we are pretty much guaranteed to get caught."

"I know," Mac sighed, suddenly looking tired again, pain lining his face. "And it's not like I'm in running shape right now, so if we get caught, we're screwed."

"But if we don't go looking for signal, they're going to realize we're gone and start looking for us, and we're sitting ducks in here," Jack continued, weighing their options.

"Right," Mac confirmed, rubbing his bruised eye gently.

"So, either we admit defeat and sit in here, waiting for that rat bastard to find us and get caught and possibly—probably—killed, or we go out there, start searching for a signal, also probably get caught and killed, but maybe, just maybe, we at least get a message out so Riley can find us."

"Sounds about right."

"Well, I know which option I'm going for; you with me?"

Mac hesitated, studying Jack with tired eyes, feeling pain in every single movement he made, no matter how miniscule—breathing, blinking, even his heart beating in his chest all hurt. He was utterly exhausted, physically, mentally, and emotionally; his body was ready to quit on him; and his brain, his mind, his best asset was waving the white flag, too. But still...if they stayed, Jack, at least, was definitely going to die. Asmara said so himself. If they left, started walking, not only might they find somewhere they had signal, but they might even find a way out. It was a helluva 'might,' but it was possible. And 'possible' was just about all they had to work with at the moment. So, taking as deep a breath as he could manage, he nodded.

"Always," he said with a slight grin.

"Alright," Jack grinned back at him, helping him stand up and handing him his makeshift cane. With his stolen knife in hand, Jack led the way, opening the closet door just a crack before peering out, making sure the hall was empty before stepping out and motioning for Mac to follow. Mac did so slowly, gritting his teeth, leaning heavily on the cane for support, checking the phone's screen every few seconds, looking for signal. The pair stumbled into the compound's kitchen, and right there, inside the doorway, Jack's phone snagged a couple bars of service.

"Jack!" Mac hissed, making his friend stop. Wordlessly, the former Delta guarded the door while Mac dialed the phone, praying for an answer.

* * *

Riley was hard at work on her laptop, coordinating Cage and Bozer's search efforts, so in her own head that she almost didn't notice her phone ringing. It rang four times before she finally noticed, and she didn't even glance at the caller ID before she answered.

"Hello?"

"Ri—" the voice was interrupted by static, but that didn't matter; she'd recognize Mac's voice anywhere. "R—ley! Ca— y— ear m—?"

"Barely, Mac; the connection's weak," Riley told him, already trying to start a trace. "What happened? Are you okay?"

"De— ine o— ay," Mac's faint, static-filled voice laughed humorlessly. "We a— oth a— ive, an— way."

"Well, that's good," Riley mumbled, frowning at her screen as she struggled to find the weak signal's origin. "Stay on the line, Mac; this might take a little while."

"We m— t no— ave— a lit— ile, Riles," Jack's voice was quiet but equally as unmistakable as Mac's. Riley tried not to let her relief at hearing him alive distract her, focusing on her task. "I co— nt six —addies co— ing ou— ay. G— rea— dy, Mac."

Riley heard Mac put the phone down, leaving the line open to give her more time. Riley's heart pounded in her chest, willing the program to go faster. All at once, she heard the intermittent, static-intertwined fighting begin, heard snippets of her friends' voices. Her breath froze in her throat when she heard Mac scream and Jack call out for him.

"Guys!" she shouted urgently, forcing herself never to take her eyes off the screen. "Guys, what's going on? Jack? Mac? Hello?"

Just like that, the line went dead, and Riley felt sick to her stomach; she hadn't been able to get a location. But, she did at least know which direction they went when they got to the river; her program, while confused by the weak, constantly fading signal, had managed to narrow the search area. Quickly, she patched herself back into Cage and Bozer's coms, having disconnected to allow herself to focus, and added Matty in as well.

"Guys, I just got a call from the guys," she reported. "I tried tracing it, but the signal was weak and kept cutting out, so best I could do is narrow down the search area. It's not much, but it's better than what we had. New search area should be hitting everyone's phones...now."

As if on command, every Phoenix agent looking for Mac and Jack, including Matty, received the revised search area on their phones. Bozer's group had gone the wrong direction at the river—downstream instead of up—so they all turned around and headed back the way they came to join Cage and her team.

"Good work, Riley," Matty commended. "Cage, Bozer, find them."

"And hurry, guys," Riley chimed in, her stomach churning. "It sounded like they were in a lot of trouble."

"When aren't they?" Cage challenged, hiding her worry easily, trying to reassure her companions. "They'll be alright, guys; they've handled worse, I'm sure."

"Oh, believe me, I'm totally confident in my boy and Jack," Bozer agreed. "But, that being said...let's find them fast, okay?"

* * *

 **Hahahahaha my paper is due tomorrow hahahaha I haven't started hahahaha I hate myself hahahahaha fuck my life hahaha**


	6. Together Or Not At All

"I count six baddies coming our way," Jack reported grimly, his back pressed against the wall by the kitchen door and peering out through the small window, his knife up. "Get ready, Mac."

Behind him, Mac put the phone down on the counter, looking around for some kind of weapon, one last surge of adrenaline blocking out most of his pain. His search began too late; before he could find anything to defend himself, the door opened, the first of Jack's "baddies" walked inside, and Jack launched himself at him, causing absolute chaos to erupt in the kitchen.

Mac stumbled back from the fray, his eyes wide, and when one of the attackers came at him, he panicked, swinging his cane at him as hard as he could. The young man grunted when the wood made contact with his temple, his head ricocheting into a cabinet. He fell unconscious almost immediately, but Mac didn't get time to revel in the victory. Before he knew it, he was attacked from behind, someone knocking his cane from his grasp and then twisting his arm painfully behind his back. Mac grunted and started to turn out of the hold, but a second man came up in front of him and kicked hard at the makeshift bandage around his leg wound. Adrenaline couldn't save him at that point, and the young Phoenix agent screamed in agony, his leg giving out under his weight.

"Mac!" Jack called out for him, worry and maybe even fear in his voice. He quickly took out the only one of the three men who'd gone after him left standing and turned his attention to helping his friend, pulling the one who'd grabbed his arm back and kicking him into the back wall. The one who'd kicked Mac's leg, seeing that the younger agent appeared down for the count, launched himself at Jack.

As Jack struggled against the two guards, Mac, dizzy from the pain and barely able to see straight, opened the cabinet he'd fallen next to. Seeing nothing useful, he opened the next cabinet and hit pay dirt. Inside was a small gas grill, a can of roach spray, and a lighter. Grabbing the spray and the lighter, he fumbled for his cane, which he'd dropped, and forced himself up to his feet.

"Jack, get out of the way!" he ordered, hanging his cane on his arm, aiming the spray, and lighting the lighter, placing the flame right in front of where the spray was released. Jack obediently ducked as the two guards turned towards Mac, and just as they did, he pressed down on the aerosol trigger. When the roach spray came into contact with the flame, it lit up, shooting fire in the direction of their attackers. The one having the misfortune of being closest to MacGyver had his sleeve catch fire, while the other one stumbled back, covering his face. With them distracted and stunned, it was all too easy for Jack to finish taking them down.

"Thanks for the assist, partner," Jack smiled at him, but his smile vanished when Mac dropped the lighter and the roach spray, collapsing again. This time, though, Jack rushed towards him, catching him before he could hit the floor and lowering him down gently.

"Mac," he said urgently. He could see his partner fading, and he kicked himself for pushing him so hard. "Mac, c'mon, man, stay with me. You gotta get up. We gotta get out of here; come on."

"I can't," Mac breathed, barely staying awake, completely and utterly spent, physically unable to give anything else, no matter how dire he knew their situation was. "Jack, I can't...I'm so sorry; I can't..."

"No, no, no, we don't use that word around here; c'mon," Jack grunted with the effort it took to literally drag Mac to his feet, but he put one of Mac's arms around his shoulders and one of his own arms around the younger man's waist, and together, they started limping for the door opposite the one they came in through.

"I'm just slowing you down," Mac gasped out, his legs moving vaguely underneath him, not really doing anything to help Jack support him, just going through the motions. "Jack, you...you gotta let me go..."

"If you even suggest that I leave you behind ever again, I will slap you sillier than you already are," Jack snapped, almost personally offended. He pushed open the door to find an abandoned mess hall, making a beeline for the door in the opposite corner of the room. "I would rather die than leave you in here, Mac; you know that."

"Well what good is it...if we both die?" Mac challenged, his breaths shallow and ragged, starting to feel his pain again. "Jack, please...please, you can still...make it out."

"No, now, listen to me, Mac," Jack growled in frustration, putting his friend down in one of the chairs strewn about the room. "I am not going to leave you here with that psychopath! I know exactly what he's gonna do to you if I do! Don't ask me to live with that on my conscience. It's not fair, and you know it."

"And it's fair to...to ask me to live...for however long we got left...knowing that I...I'm the reason we're both gonna die?" Mac shot back, equally frustrated.

"I promised you that I was gonna get you out of here," Jack's voice and expression left no more room for argument. "I am going to keep that promise. Mac, I know you're tired, I know you're hurting, I know you're barely stayin' awake right now, and I hate to ask this of you, but you gotta keep going for just a little while longer, okay? We're getting out of here together, or not at all. So are you gonna come with me, or are we gonna sit here and wait to get caught?"

Again, faced with this question, Mac hesitated. He quite literally had no more strength left in him. Every single nerve in his body was on fire. He could barely breathe. But, there was still that nagging voice in his head, reminding him that if he threw in the towel, Jack was as good as dead, so he let out a weary sigh.

"I hate you," Mac teased, extending a weak, shaking hand for Jack to help him up. Jack smiled at him, pulling him to his feet and taking most of his weight again.

"No, you don't."

The two men—well, mostly just Jack—made their way towards the door, and Jack opened it slightly, looking out to see if the coast was clear. Immediately, he pulled back, closing the door as silently as he could.

"Okay, I think we woke a few people up with our little stunt in the kitchen," he breathed.

"That'll happen when we set people on fire," Mac replied quietly, earning a smile from his friend. Jokes were good; as long as Mac kept his spirits up, he might be able to get him out of there. The minute the younger agent well and truly gave up was the minute they lost. Jack's determination alone could only get them so far. "How many?"

"Seven, as far as I could see," Jack told him. "They looked pretty pissed, if I'm being honest."

"Well, again, we...we did set one of them...on fire," Mac repeated, trying to keep his focus off his pain.

"No, you set one of them on fire, and it was awesome," Jack grinned at him, chuckling softly, before regaining his composure.

"Alright...Well, I don't like it, buddy, but I'm gonna have to leave you here for a minute while I take care of these guys," he said quietly. Mac gave an understanding nod, and Jack carefully lowered him to the floor. Mac had to bite hard on his cheek to keep from screaming. By that point, he was seeing double, and every sound was echoey and distant. His eyes started to close, but Jack patted the side of his face firmly a couple times.

"Stay awake for me, Mac," he urged. "I'll be back in a few minutes."

Mac nodded, trying with everything in him to stay awake as Jack took a deep breath and, knife in hand, threw open the door and stepped out into the hallway.

"Hey, fellas!" Mac gave a small laugh when he heard his friend's words, followed by the sounds of a struggle.

Without Jack to keep him engaged, Mac started fading in and out of consciousness, only for a few seconds at a time, but enough for his perception of reality and time to become extremely distorted. He had no idea how long it had been since Jack left the room, but eventually, he became aware that he was no longer alone in the mess hall. There was someone else with him...Asmara. Upon recognizing the man, Mac forced himself to stay awake, even if he couldn't keep his eyes open for too long at a time. He saw the older man holding a gun, about to walk out into the hallway.

 _He's going to kill Jack._

That one thought jolted Mac's mind into full wakefulness, even though his body could offer little help. He tried to yell, call out for his friend, warn him, but his voice was failing him, already weak from screaming. Frustrated, he looked around, and his eye fell on a plate, lying just a foot or two to his right, in a bin likely used to gather dirty dishes. Breathing hard, he grabbed for it, his arm shaking with the effort, and pulled it closer to him. Using what very well might have been the absolute last bit of his physical strength that he had left to give, he picked up the plate and threw it as hard as he could manage at their captor. Asmara grunted when the glass found its target—his left shoulder and the side of his face—before shattering onto the floor.

"Mac?" Jack called from the other side of the door, hearing the plate as Asmara stumbled back from the wounded agent, blinking to clear his vision. When he finally realized what happened, he looked furious.

"You stupid fuck," he snarled, stalking towards him. Mac scooted back from him just a couple inches, unable to go any further before Asmara reached him, kicking him in the chest so that he fell flat on his back and then dropping to one knee beside him. As Mac gasped, trying to stay awake through the pain, Asmara grabbed a fistful of his hair at the back of his head, pulling his head back awkwardly and jamming his gun up under his chin. Before he could pull the trigger, the door to the hallway opened again, and Jack returned, wielding a gun likely stolen from one of the guards he'd fought. Seeing his enemy standing over his partner made Jack's heart skip a beat, and he raised his weapon.

"Asmara, let him go right now, or I swear to God, I will turn you into Swiss cheese," the former Delta snarled, blinking hard as his ears rang, having taken several blows to the head during his fight in the hallway. Asmara didn't move from his position, studying Mac carefully as the young agent stared up at him, blinking slowly, barely conscious.

"I said, let him go!" Jack snapped, taking a threatening step towards him. Finally, Asmara smirked and looked over at him.

"You'd think by now you'd learn to clear a room, Dalton," he chuckled. Jack felt his stomach drop, looking behind him and seeing the two men who'd tortured them, each aiming an assault rifle at his skull.

"It's kinda sad, really, how close you were to getting out of here," Asmara sighed, not a trace of empathy in his eyes. "Although, I don't think your buddy, here, was gonna make it out with you. He's barely hanging on."

As if to emphasize his words, he pulled a little harder on Mac's hair and jammed his gun a little harder against his skin. Mac could barely manage a broken whimper, only holding onto consciousness to make sure Jack didn't do something stupid and get himself killed.

"Alright, you know what? Your boys can shoot me if they want to; I'm taking you down with me," Jack laughed humorlessly, his eyes carrying a dangerous edge. Mac, still unable to make himself speak, shook his head weakly as best he could.

"I don't think your partner wants you to do that," Asmara observed. "Put it down, Jack. You lost; accept it."

Jack hesitated, his eyes shifting to Mac. His friend was staring back at him with a look of pure exhaustion on his face. His eyes sparked with fear, but Jack could tell that he had nothing left in the tank; he'd pushed himself way past his limits. Even if they managed to get away, now, they wouldn't get far. Asmara was right; he lost. That killed him. But he also knew that if he tried anything, they were probably going to die; three guys with guns, one of them aimed directly at Mac's big ol' brain, versus essentially just Jack. He didn't stand a chance. Reluctantly, the action almost physically paining him—no, actually, the motion _was_ physically painful after the day he'd had—he lifted his hands up by his head, taking his finger off the trigger of his newly-acquired gun. One of the men behind him took the weapon from his hand and the other forced him to his knees.

"Let him go, Selam," Jack growled, his eyes still on Mac. Asmara glanced down at the younger agent, who was losing his grip on consciousness. With a smirk, he released his grip on the man and pulled his gun back, allowing both him and Jack to relax slightly. Mac managed one more look over at Jack before he was finally pulled into the waiting blackness, his muscles going slack on the floor. His partner was almost glad he was asleep; he was certain he wasn't going to like what Asmara was going to do for payback. If at all possible, he'd prefer if Mac didn't have to witness it.

As Jack was restrained and pulled to his feet, all he could do was hope that their distress call had worked; Riley was their only hope, now.

* * *

 **Okay, okay, I know I said I wasn't going to post anything until I was done with all my real world responsibilities, but someone _*cough*JustADreamer24*cough*_ said they were "literally dying" to see what happens next, so this procrastination was a public service, really.**


	7. Mac

Mac slept—if one could call his experience 'sleep'—straight through the night, never once stirring, his exhausted body and mind craving rest, a chance to recover. He could have slept for years, he felt, and he might have done just that if he'd been left undisturbed. But alas, fate—and, more specifically, Selam Asmara—had other plans for him.

The young, tortured agent was jolted back to consciousness by a cascade of icy water. He coughed and sputtered, jerking in his chair only to instantly regret the quick movement, his sore muscles, broken bones, and wounded leg all screaming in agony. As he sat there, gasping, trying to get his bearings again, he realized that he was once again restrained to his same chair—the cable ties and tape even tighter than before—and Jack was in the same predicament across from him, his handcuffs replaced with cable ties and duct tape. His friend's face was a bit more bruised than it had been the night before, but he looked relatively okay, for which Mac was grateful. The cart full of torture tools, now rearranged back the way it was when he and Jack stole it, was a little off to his left, and he could hear the man who'd tortured him doing something behind him. It wasn't until he heard the squeak of a faucet that he realized that he was refilling the bucket he'd used to dump his alarm clock all over him. This knowledge made his jaw twitch as he looked around the rest of the room. Jack's eyes were locked on him, both reassuring and apologetic, as the other guard stood beside him. Asmara himself was sitting in his usual spot, leaning forward against the back of his metal chair, holding Mac's cane in one hand and Jack's now-dead phone in the other.

"You're a very creative man," their captor commented, looking over at him as Mac shifted uncomfortably. He held up Mac's two creations. "These are both very impressive. And using a lightbulb to pick a lock? I've never even heard of such a thing. I don't know if I want to kill you for facilitating that pathetic escape attempt, or shake your hand."

"Hey, now, don't go taking that out on the kid," Jack interrupted. "Escaping was my idea, my plan, my execution. He was just along for the ride."

"That's a nice try, Jack," Asmara commended. "But note the blood trail from his chair to yours; if you got free first, it wouldn't be there. You were not the one bleeding."

Jack didn't respond to that, his jaw twitching as he looked over at his exhausted friend apologetically, wishing more than anything that he could protect him. Mac shook his head at him, trying to tell him that it wasn't his fault, as Asmara spun the cane in his hand thoughtfully.

"You know, I don't think I ever caught your name," he said after a moment.

"You never asked," Mac reminded him, his voice gravelly with sleep. His vision was no longer distorted, his rest—however short—having helped him immensely. His body was almost in more pain now than it had been previously, but his brain appeared to be recovering relatively well. Granted, he was still absolutely feeling his likely multiple concussions, but he could think more clearly, even if those thoughts were slow.

"I know," Asmara nodded. "And that was rude of me. Let's start over. I'm Selam; and you are...?"

Mac remained silent, not about to give up his name. Phoenix taught him better than that. He stared Asmara down, anger and determination in his eyes. The traitor smirked at him, then turned to the guard beside Jack, asking him a question in a language neither agent spoke, although they did recognize it vaguely. Jack shook his head.

"Sorry, no hablo español," the former Delta commented.

"Portuguese," Mac corrected. "We're in Brazil."

"They speak Portuguese in Brazil? That doesn't sound right."

"Of course they do; how do you not know that? Everybody knows that."

"Well, clearly, that ain't true."

"Enough," Asmara broke in, annoyance in his voice, rolling his eyes and shaking his head as he looked over at the guard expectantly.

"Mac," the man replied, his voice heavily accented.

"Ah, yes," Asmara nodded, looking over at Mac with a venomous smile, enjoying how some of the color left the young man's face. "Mac. That's what he called you last night. Doesn't sound like a real name. Definitely a nickname. You Americans are so fond of those."

"Us Americans?" Jack shot him a look. "You were born in and raised in Michigan! Both of your parents were born in New York! I hate to break it to ya, Selam, but as much as we both might not like it, you're American, too. Get over yourself."

Asmara glanced at the man standing beside Jack, who obediently punched the older agent across the face, his fist making contact with numerous bruises and making Jack cry out.

"As I was saying," their captor continued, his voice venomous, "Mac. What is that short for?"

Mac just stared at him, not responding, his hands clenching into fists.

"What do you care, anyway?" Jack asked after a moment, kicking himself for having revealed even his friend's nickname, blinking to clear his vision. "Your issue is with me, not the kid; it doesn't matter who he is. You only care who he is to me."

"That's true," Asmara allowed. "But what can I say? He's captured my interest. So, how about it, Mac? Want to satisfy my curiosity?"

"Not particularly," Mac admitted honestly. Asmara's eyes darkened.

"Fine," their captor sighed, clearly unhappy. "Spoil my fun. We can get right down to business if you really want to."

Mac's heart leapt into his throat, but he managed to keep his composure on the outside.

"See, somebody is going to have to be punished for that little stunt you pulled last night," he continued, tossing Jack's phone across the room and watching it shatter. "I would be remiss if I just let that kind of thing slide, you understand. So I'm faced with a predicament. Which one do I punish?"

"Me," Jack spoke up quickly. "If it weren't for me, he never would have made it out of the room."

"Jack, c'mon..." Mac sighed wearily, hating what his friend was trying to do.

"Shut up, Mac," his friend snapped. "He's already done enough to you."

"Oh, I have, have I?" Asmara raised his eyebrows. "Then, tell me, where did you send Victoria?"

Jack didn't answer, and Asmara gave a laugh.

"Oh, how I love watching you struggle, Jack," he said with a smirk. "And it's really cute that you thought you had a choice in who was going to get hurt, here. See, no matter which one I hurt, you both get punished. That's the beauty of this little setup I have for you. But, I've gotta be honest...beating the hell out of you, Jack, is not nearly as much fun as watching you watch him get hurt. So, Mac, I'm sorry; this is just not your week."

Mac's jaw set and his he shifted in his chair. The guard behind him came back into view, starting to peruse the tool cart as Asmara stood up, walking slowly towards Mac with the makeshift cane in his hand.

"And on top of all of this, there's something I need to know from you, Mac," he told him, pointing at the young agent with the cane. He crouched down in front of the wounded man, looking up at him with cold eyes. "Who did you call?"

Mac didn't respond, smirking slightly. Asmara sighed, shaking his head.

"Being the strong silent type isn't going to help you, Mac," he warned. "Ask Jack how well it worked out for Charlie."

"I swear to God, I'm gonna kill you this time," Jack snarled furiously.

"That'd be a neat trick," Asmara laughed, never taking his eyes off Mac. Their captor looked at him hungrily, eager to hurt him and not bothering to hide it. "So, who did you call, Mac? The phone took a bit of a hit before we could get a look at the call log, so who was it?"

"I was ordering a pizza," Mac replied, sarcasm dripping from his words. "Obviously."

"Sounds like that good night's sleep of yours gave you some of that courage back," Asmara observed, sounding annoyed. He nodded at the guard beside the younger man, and once again, Mac felt that damn baton get jammed into his broken ribs, bringing with it enough electricity to make every muscle in his body go rigid. Across the room, Jack looked away, unable to watch as Mac struggled to breathe. When he finally pulled the baton back, he immediately followed up with a solid punch to Mac's jaw. The young agent gave a strangled yelp, his split lip starting to bleed again.

"Mac, I'm trying to be nice, here," Asmara told him.

"You're failing miserably," Mac gasped, spitting blood onto the concrete floor.

"You're not giving me a choice."

"I was calling for help; what the hell else would I have been doing?"

"I'm aware of _what_ you were calling for; I want to know _who_ you were calling."

"Keep dreaming."

Asmara studied him, standing up as Mac's eyes followed his every movement, anger in their blue depths. The older man's expression was cold and calculating. Eventually, their captor smirked.

"You know what?" he said at last. "It doesn't matter. You will be gone from this place, one way or another, long before they ever come close to finding you. Believe me, I know; I've been monitoring rescue efforts since they began. They are hundreds of miles from us, and we are well-hidden here. Even if we weren't going to move you soon, I doubt they'd find you."

Mac didn't have an answer to that, looking over at Jack and trying to hide his nervousness. He could see the utter frustration on his friend's face, the anger, the fear, the regret. Again, the young agent did everything he could to nonverbally tell him that it wasn't his fault as Asmara grinned down at him. He glanced at his watch, then turned to both of his guards.

"Trinta minutos," he told them. Mac's stomach dropped; it didn't take a linguist to know what he'd said, although knowing the Spanish word for 'thirty' helped him out, as the pronunciations were almost identical. The young man let his head hang, his eyes closed as he tried to prepare himself for what he knew was coming. Asmara looked down at him, still smiling, and shifted his grip on Mac's cane so that he was holding it near the bottom, using the curved end to lift his chin. Mac forced his eyes open, looking up at him in hatred.

"You have fun, Mac," he said with mock sincerity. "I will see you both very soon."

With these words, he pulled the cane back, resuming the normal holding position, and walked towards the door as the guard standing near Jack—Jack decided to call him Cain—came over to assist the one who'd been torturing Mac—Abel, in the older agent's mind, if for no other reason than Jack wanted him dead most, between the two of them. As Cain browsed the selection of torture tools, Abel got right to work, unceremoniously jabbing the baton into Mac's side again, jostling the broken bones beneath his skin while the current left him unable to cry out. Asmara smiled to himself, listening to his young captive grunt and fight for air as Jack started to struggle out of desperation, before finally leaving his men to their work.

* * *

 **Sorry this one's shorter, everybody. I'm working on more as we speak, but I was as eager to post something as some of you were. I'll probably be getting another one up either tonight or tomorrow morning before I shift gears and start doing my last lab report and studying for my finals. Hope this is enough to tide you over.**


	8. When He Breaks

"Riley," the young analyst jumped upon hearing Cage's voice, whipping around in her chair to look at her. A sudden storm had put the rescue efforts on hold for the moment, and the agents had come back to the building Riley was set up in to wait it out. But while they had been forced to stop looking, Riley was still digging, the storm barely affecting her, pouring over satellite data, cell phone traffic, anything she could get her digital hands on. The storm was blocking the satellite from obtaining any current images, but she was trying to piece together what route they might have taken after kidnapping Mac and Jack. As she was doing that, she was also trying to figure out who in the hell had taken them in the first place and kicking herself for not asking that when they called.

"Have you slept at all?" the field agent asked, she herself sounding a bit tired.

"Can't," Riley shook her head, turning her attention back to her work. "Too wired. Gotta find Mac and Jack; they need help now."

"Okay, but are you really giving them your best when you're surviving on coffee alone?" Cage raised an eyebrow. "This isn't healthy. You need to sleep."

"You didn't hear them," Riley finally stopped typing, swiveling on her chair to glare up at her colleague. "You didn't hear how exhausted Mac sounded. You didn't hear him scream. You didn't hear Jack scream. I need to get them out of there, right now."

Cage hesitated, studying the younger girl with a frown. "Okay," she said at last, realizing that fighting with her was not going to get them anywhere. "What do you have so far?"

"Nothing," Riley replied bitterly. "All I can really tell is where they're not, and that's really not helpful, considering our search area started at over seven hundred square miles and we've only cleared about a hundred so far. I mean, it's better than the five thousand plus we started with, but still."

"What about anything on who might have taken them?" Cage tried, rubbing her brow with her good hand.

"Nada," Riley shook her head, sounding almost defeated. "I should have asked them that when they called. I should've—"

"Riley, you were focusing on trying to find them," Cage reminded her. "That was all you could have done. The call lasted about a minute, and you could only actually talk to them for about thirty seconds, right?" she waited for Riley to nod. "Then you really didn't have a whole lot of time to do anything, did you?"

"No," Riley admitted grudgingly.

"Right," Cage nodded. "So stop focusing on what you don't have or didn't do, and start focusing on what you do have and can do. So we want to find out who has them, right?"

"Obviously."

"So start with motive. Who would want to get their hands on Mac and Jack badly enough to go through all this trouble?"

"First name that comes to mind is Murdoc," Riley offered. "But it just...doesn't feel dramatic enough for him. Last time he got Mac he basically signed his name on it."

"Check him anyway," Cage suggested. "Look back through Mac and Jack's files, find anyone who might have had a grudge against them personally, and then see if any of them are either known to be in the area or have unknown whereabouts. After that...see who might have a grudge against the Phoenix. And if all of that turns up nothing, check into all of us; this could be an indirect attack against you, Matty, Bozer...probably not me, considering I've only just joined you guys recently, but check me anyway. More than likely, it's personal or targeted at the Phoenix, but it's too soon to rule anything out."

"You got it," Riley nodded, rubbing her eyes and shaking her head as she started the search.

"Now," Cage sighed. "Does that search need you to babysit it?"

"No," Riley gave her a strange look.

"Then get it set up and go grab some sleep," the field agent ordered, starting to make her way into another room to get some coffee. "Mac and Jack need you at your best right now. You can check out the results when you wake up."

Riley opened her mouth to protest, but closed it, knowing she was right. So, as her program began cross referencing and compiling a list of possible names, she stretched out, kicked her feet up, and let her eyes fall shut. By the time Cage came back after refilling her coffee mug, she was asleep.

* * *

When Asmara returned to the room in which he was keeping his two prisoners, having showered and grabbed breakfast, Mac was screaming, Abel still holding a small blowtorch to his leg wound, cauterizing it—painfully—after it wouldn't stop bleeding following the other (just as painful) twenty-eight minutes of his punishment. Jack's head was down and angled away from his partner, his teeth tightly clenched as he tried to block out the younger man's screams. Upon seeing Asmara return, both Cain and Abel backed off, waiting for instructions as Mac's cries slowly became whimpers. The young agent's facial bruises were even more pronounced by that point. Every breath looked like a battle. But the worst thing, though, was the trembling. His body was shaking very visibly, tears falling from his blue eyes as he tried to get himself back under control.

Hearing Mac start to get quiet after listening to him scream for thirty minutes straight, Jack slowly turned back to him, and Asmara smirked at the look of devastation on the older man's face.

"I hope you both have learned your lesson," their captor spoke up, chuckling. Mac looked over his shoulder at him, his face lined with pain and exhaustion.

"I know I've said this before," the terrorist continued, this time addressing Jack. "But your buddy's not looking so good, Jack."

"Oh, I can't wait to kill you," Jack snarled, fury in his eyes.

"The feeling is very much mutual," Asmara assured him. He took a few steps closer to Mac, studying him carefully. Mac stared up at him, hatred on his face, breathing hard as he tried to slow down his heart rate. "I trust you've learned your lesson, Mac."

Mac refused to answer, offering only a scoff in acknowledgement. Asmara laughed to himself, going to resume his seat in the chair near Jack.

"So, Jack," he sighed. "Anything you want to tell me about Victoria?"

"I don't know how many times you want me to tell you this," Jack sighed wearily, his voice missing its bite as he looked Mac over from across the room, watching him try desperately to hide his pain. "I don't know where she is. Anything I might have known way back when probably isn't worth anything anymore; it was over twenty years ago. What is it going to take for you to believe me?"

At this, Asmara raised his eyebrows and leaned towards the former Delta, looking him dead in the eye. When he spoke, his voice was quiet and even, and it sent chills down both captives' spines.

"I'll tell you when I'll believe it," he smirked. "When your partner isn't so brave anymore. When he's begging and screaming for me to stop; when he can't breathe; when he can't take it anymore; when he stops telling you he's alright; then, I will believe you. Because I know you, Jack. And I know that you will put on a brave face and you will keep going, keep fighting the good fight like the good little soldier you are, right up until the moment he breaks. You will take all the abuse in the world just to piss me off, but you will not let your friend suffer after he starts begging you to make it stop. You would do anything to spare him that kind of pain. Sure, right now it's hard to watch, but he's still got fight left in him. Right now, you're thinking that if you got another chance, you could probably get the both of you out of here, and you're thinking that maybe your friends that you called will find you, but when he gives up, it's all over. Then it doesn't matter if you got the chance; it doesn't matter if anyone finds you; then, all that matters is that your partner is suffering, is in so much pain, truly can't fight anymore, and you can make it stop. When he is asking you, begging you, to tell me what I want to know, I will believe you. Until then, enjoy the view."

Jack's jaw set, feeling sick to his stomach as Mac closed his eyes, trying to prepare himself. If he was being honest, the younger agent was much more worried about his partner than himself at that point; he knew how personally Jack tended to take things. He felt the need to protect him—to protect all of them—and took it as a personal failure if he couldn't. Without even looking up, he knew he was already blaming himself for what was going to happen. If he could speak without his voice shaking at that point, he'd be telling him not to worry, that it wasn't on him, that he could handle it. But, he was focusing too much on blocking out the pain, getting his breathing back under control. Jack studied him, regret and fear for his friend's safety—for his life—plainly evident on his face.

"So," Asmara sighed, looking over at his younger captive with a smile. "How 'bout it, Mac? You ready for round two?"

Mac, finally getting his heart and shallow breathing to slow, looked over at him with hatred in his eyes, a determined smirk on his face, as though he'd just been issued a challenge. Asmara gave a slight laugh, amused—and annoyed—at his determination, and nodded at the two men on either side of him. Mac tensed, steeling himself, as he waited to see what they had in mind. Both men were positioned behind him, talking rapidly in Portuguese, and Mac couldn't even pick out any cognates that would help him decipher what they were saying. Instead, after a few moments, he caught a glimpse of a dish towel just before it was pulled tight over his face and tied behind his head. He fought to stay calm, knowing exactly what was going to happen next, as his chair was tilted back, his descent only stopped by a chain attaching the bar between the two front legs to a metal loop in the floor at his feet, which he hadn't noticed before. The young agent forced himself to take as much of a breath as he could manage, and then sure enough, the other guard began slowly pouring icy water over the towel, soaking it and making it impossible for him to get any more oxygen than what he'd already managed to obtain. Upon realizing he was holding his breath, however, the man who'd tied the towel punched him hard in the stomach, forcing the air from his lungs. Across the room, Jack pulled desperately against his restraints, staring at Mac with utter helplessness on his face. Asmara watched him, clearly and unapologetically amused, as Mac fought for air, whipping his head around to try and escape the water, but there was no escape. Every desperate breath he drew was basically pure water, and made him cough uncontrollably. The seconds felt like hours as he unwillingly began to panic. When the water in the bucket finally ran out and his torturers pushed his chair back forward, ripping off the soaked towel, Mac couldn't hide his relief, doubling over as much as he possibly could with his shoulders taped back and coughing a deep, wet cough, gasping in much-needed air as his usual torturer went about refilling the bucket.

"Jack, anything to say about Victoria?" Asmara asked. Jack glanced at him, then looked over at Mac, who shook his head, willing his friend not to talk. The former Delta grit his teeth and dropped his gaze.

"Mac," their captor sighed, realizing Jack wasn't ready yet, and looked over at his younger victim. "Anything to add about who you called?"

Mac stared back at him, his chest heaving as he gasped, but didn't respond, determination still very evident in his eyes. Asmara frowned.

"Fine, then," he threw his hands up. "Let me know when you want this to be over."

With this, the wet towel came back over Mac's face, being re-tied behind his head, and his chair was tilted back. Again, the young agent took as much of a breath as he possibly could, and then the water came, just as cold and shock-inducing as ever.

Across the room, Jack's heart was breaking in his chest, hearing Mac struggle while unable to look up, unable to bear to see him fighting his fight. It shouldn't have been Mac getting hurt; this whole business with Asmara had nothing to do with him. Hell, he was barely in school when it happened. As much as Jack hated to admit it, his enemy was right; he couldn't take listening to Mac suffer. It hurt worse than any torture. He knew that it had to happen, that they had to play this out as long as they possibly could to give Riley and the Phoenix enough time to track them down, but he wasn't sure how much he could take, wasn't sure how long he could stand to just sit there while his friend was drowning just a few feet from him. A thought he'd been avoiding made its way into his head: he knew that SOS they put out was not connected long enough for Riley to track them. So, all of Mac's pain...it could all be for nothing anyway.

The older agent looked up when he heard Mac's chair hit the ground again. The young man gasped, coughing out the water he'd breathed in, shaking his head and whipping his drenched blond hair around, trying to get it out of his face.

"Thanks, guys," the young agent smiled with false sincerity as he looked up, his eyes shifting between his two torturers. "I really needed a drink."

Asmara laughed, genuinely amused even as he signaled to Abel, who punched the captive across the face.

"I gotta tell ya, Jack," the terrorist commented, his eyes still on Mac, "your partner is just _fascinating_. Really, just...I don't know what to make of him. It's not often I'm faced with something I can't make heads or tails of."

"Well, there's a first time for everything," Mac gave a painful shrug.

"Indeed there is," Asmara allowed. "And I can't wait to be the first one to to make you beg your partner to betray that which you both hold so dear."

Mac hid the chill that shot down his spine at his words, and instead opened his mouth to say something, but before he could, the towel was replaced over his face, and he was once again falling a short distance backwards. Jack turned away again as Abel began pouring water over the young agent's face, and flinched when he heard the buzz of the baton and the muffled grunt it elicited from Mac's throat. The device was not pulled away from his ribs until the water was gone and the chair came forward. When the towel came off this time, Mac was gasping harder and coughing louder than before.

"I really think you're both overestimating him, Jack," Asmara hissed. "Listen. Listen to him breathing; hear how labored and crackly that sounds. You know he can't keep going like this."

"Shut up," Mac growled from across the room, still gasping. "Jack, I'm fine."

"Not for long, you won't be," Asmara chuckled, but there was clear annoyance in his voice. He wasn't expecting the young agent to be quite so much trouble. He gestured to the guard known to Jack as Cain, and the man punched Mac's burned, blistered stab wound as hard as he could, making the man scream in absolute agony. In the other chair, Jack gave a start, and Asmara smiled as the two guards once again put the towel over Mac's face, tilted him back, and began emptying the bucket on his face. One good thing about the two of them putting up a fight was the fact that, the longer they fought, the more time he'd have to force Jack to suffer through his worst nightmare. That, all by itself, made every ounce of frustration worth it.

* * *

 **So, I was informed by a guest reader that people actually think people speak Spanish in Brazil and I just...? I mean, I learned they didn't in like 6th grade (probably earlier, but that's my earliest memory of my teacher expressly telling me that). C'mon people; get it together...**

 **Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter. I'm about to start finals, so (hopefully) I will be studying and not writing for the next week or so. I will get the next chapter up as soon as I can. I thought of something really, really mean that I might end up doing...and something else that I can't decide if it would be too...eh. Regardless, shit is gonna go down, guys.**


	9. Cage

"Mac," Jack's voice sounded distant, echoing in his partner's ears as he struggled back to consciousness. "Mac! Mac, can you hear me?"

"Jack," the young agent's voice was raw and scratchy, painful from screaming and choking on water.

"Hey, buddy," Jack sounded relieved as Mac carefully picked his head up and looked around. "How're you feeling; you okay?"

He wasn't. He knew he wasn't. At least five of his ribs were broken, he was pretty sure his skull was fractured, his jaw felt cracked, his thigh wound still felt like it was on fire, and his lungs were screaming. All that was disregarding the numerous soft tissue bruises he'd sustained. Still, he knew how much seeing him this way hurt Jack, so he gave a weak nod as he shifted painfully in his chair, gritting his teeth. "What happened?"

"You passed out," Jack told him. The two captives were half way through their second full day of confinement, and Asmara hadn't let up in the slightest. He'd grown particularly fond of the waterboarding—probably because it forced Mac's mind and body to panic, no matter how hard he resisted, and that panic had a clear effect on Jack. "They took a break for lunch; they'll be back soon."

"Great," Mac couldn't help but sound less than thrilled, coughing that nasty, wet cough, and Jack flinched at the sound.

"Mac, take a few deep breaths for me," the former Delta requested. Mac shook his head, the very thought sending pain shooting through him.

"I can't," the younger man refused, barely able to keep his eyes open.

"You need to," Jack told him urgently. "C'mon, man. You know waterboarding puts you at risk for pneumonia, and so do broken ribs, and you already sound like you're halfway there; if you don't force yourself to breathe deep, you're just guaranteeing it. It's gonna be hard enough getting you out of here with the shape you're in; it's gonna be even harder if you're sick on top of it. So c'mon; take a deep breath."

Mac looked over at him, trying to keep the pain out of his eyes and expression but failing. Jack grimaced, anger and desperation flaring in his chest. Finally, Mac gave a small nod and forced himself to draw a long, deep breath, his face contorting in agony. Jack's stomach lurched, seeing how much effort it took to do something as simple as take a deep breath. The younger agent let out one breath and drew another, going as deep as he possibly could.

"Good, Mac," Jack approved, trying to hide his concern. "You holding up?"

"Yeah," he assured him, forcing a slight smile. "I'm good, Jack. Really. I'll be fine."

"Mm-hmm," Jack didn't believe him, but he didn't argue, either.

"Are _you_ okay?" Mac asked after a moment, looking over at him in concern.

"I'm fine," the older agent replied, perhaps a bit too quickly.

"This isn't your fault, Jack," Mac's voice was slowly getting louder as his mind woke up more. "You know that, right?"

Jack didn't answer for a long time. So long, in fact, that Mac wasn't sure he'd heard him.

"Jack?"

"I heard you," his partner nodded. "I just don't agree with you."

"No, listen to me," Mac growled. "This is not on you. It's not your fault that the helicopter went down; it's not your fault Asmara found you again or that he's even breathing free air in the first place; it's not your fault that he's hurting me; and it's not your fault that we didn't make it out of here."

"This is not your fight, kid," Jack shot back, sounding distraught. "When this thing went down between Selam and I, you were barely eight years old. You should not be the one getting hurt for this."

"Yeah, well, that doesn't make it your fault."

"Then whose is it?"

"I dunno; I think I'd start with the ass hat who grabbed us in the first place. Jack, there is literally no part of this that is your fault."

Jack didn't answer. The pair lapsed into silence, just waiting for their captor and tormentors to return. After a few minutes, Mac looked over at him.

"Hey Jack?"

"Mmm?"

"We're not getting out of here, are we?"

Jack flinched, hearing the hopelessness in his voice. His jaw twitched as he looked down, unable to meet his friend and partner's eyes. Finally, he shook his head.

"No," he concluded. "Probably not. Not by ourselves. Not while you're as hurt as you are."

Mac nodded, processing this, his eyes closed as his throbbing jaw twitched. When he spoke again, his voice trembled.

"I'm sorry, Jack..."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa; what the hell do you have to be sorry for?"

"We'd be out right now if it weren't for me. If I'd just been faster or...if I'd been smarter..."

"Hey, no, now, don't go playing the 'what if' game," Jack's voice was scolding to hide how much his heart broke hearing him talk like that, like he was sure they were going to die. "It's just gonna drive you insane. If this isn't my fault, then it sure as hell ain't yours either. We're going to get out of here, Mac; we've just gotta trust Riley. If anyone can find us, it's her. I'm not gonna let you die in here, brother; don't give up on me, okay?"

Right...Riley...he'd almost forgotten they'd managed to call her. It felt like so long ago, although he knew it couldn't have been more than a few days. Jack was right; he was losing it. He couldn't do that. If he gave up, Jack would do something stupid; he knew he would. So, the tortured agent forced himself to nod.

Before either one of them could say anything else, the door opened again, and Mac jumped slightly, swallowing a grunt of pain as the motion sent pain shooting through his battered body.

"Ah, Mac," Asmara's voice held the same venomous smile his face did. "Back with us, I see. Just in time, too. We're going on a trip."

Mac and Jack exchanged glances as Cain and Abel came into the room. Abel started first, slicing Mac's wrists, ankles, and shoulders free before hauling him up. The young agent grunted in pain, his right leg struggling to support his weight as his torturer restrained his hands behind his back. He winced when he felt a gun get jabbed into his spine and looked over at Jack, who was getting freed by Cain now that Mac was under control. Jack didn't fight once he was free, allowing himself to get pulled up and restrained, knowing that he couldn't take all three of them out by himself without Mac getting hurt—or worse—in the process, which he was certain was the point. His jaw twitched as Asmara smirked at him, and when both prisoners were ready, he gestured for them to follow him, as if they had a choice in the matter. Cain and Abel pushed them forward, ignoring when Mac stumbled, barely staying upright. Jack's stomach churned as they walked through the compound; if they left this place, he wasn't sure how Riley was going to find them. And if she didn't find them...

Jack looked over at his partner, watching as he panted heavily from the exertion of walking down the hall. If Riley didn't find them, they were both dead.

* * *

Riley, meanwhile, was hard at work. She'd already compiled a list of suspects and handed it off to Matty so she could help narrow it down further; it was a long list. Cage, Bozer, and the rest of the agents were back out in the forest, searching for Mac and Jack. In the middle of a keystroke, an alert popped up on her screen. Her eyes grew wide, and immediately, she called the rest of her team.

"Riley, what is it?" Matty asked when she, Bozer, and Cage connected.

"I found Jack," Riley reported. "Probably—hopefully—Mac, too, but I've been monitoring some of the cameras in the area surrounding the forest, and I just caught Jack's face. He's in a car. I'm sending you the coordinates now; Cage, your group is closest. If you have the helicopter pick you up, you might catch up to them."

Cage didn't need to hear anything else. In a few moments, the helicopter assisting with their search arrived, and Cage and her group of agents boarded it, taking off into the sky.

"Where are we going, Riley?" Cage asked after a few minutes.

"I've got the car," the analyst reported. "It's stopped at a nearby air strip; coordinates headed your way. Hurry up!"

The newest addition to their team grit her teeth, checking the assault rifle in her hand to make sure it was loaded and ready to work. Air strip. That meant they were taking them somewhere far away. If they didn't get them out now, they might never find them again.

* * *

Jack's jaw was tight as they pulled up to the air strip. Asmara was driving the SUV they were in. Mac was in the passenger seat, whimpering at every pothole they drove over, while Abel was positioned on Jack's right, behind Mac, with a gun aimed at the younger agent through the seat, again purely for Jack's benefit. Cain was on the former Delta's left, boxing him in. Asmara put the car in park and stepped out. Cain was the first to follow suit, climbing out of the car and then reaching in to drag Jack out after him. Again, the older agent scarcely fought, and on the other side of the car, Abel got out and opened the passenger door, pulling Mac from his seat as the young man groaned in pain. Jack's stomach clenched at the sound, but forced himself to tear his eyes away from Mac and start assessing the situation. There was a cargo plane parked on the tarmac, being loaded by Asmara's guards—the ones still breathing, anyway. There were roughly thirty of them, all armed. It looked as though they were packing up the whole operation.

Asmara said something to Abel in Portuguese, and the man nodded, pulling Mac towards the plane, hardly pausing to let him regain his footing when he stumbled. Jack started to follow, but Cain stopped him, shoving him so that his back slammed against the car. Jack glared at the guard as Asmara studied him.

"You know this is pointless, right, Jack?" the older man remarked finally.

"Oh, my God, seriously? I have to put up with you running your mouth again?"

"You saw how well your buddy's holding up," Asmara continued as if he hadn't spoken. "He's not going to last too much longer, and we both know it. Why make him do something you know he can't do?"

"You underestimate him."

"Oh, this is not an assessment of him, Jack. It's one of you. Only a coward would let his partner suffer just to spare himself judgement from his peers."

"See, now, personally, I think only a coward would go after the kid in the first place, but that's just me."

Asmara smirked, amusement in his expression, then gave Cain a nod. The young guard punched Jack in the gut, forcing the breath from his lungs. The Phoenix agent doubled over, gasping. But before Asmara could say another word, they heard a helicopter begin to approach. Jack's captor's smile vanished, and his jaw set.

 _Well it is about damn time,_ Jack thought to himself, just knowing that it was Riley's doing before the helicopter even came into view, trying not to let his relief get the better of him.

Asmara, irritation in his expression, repeated the same thing he'd said to Abel, his voice much louder and harsher this time as he fought to be heard over the chopper. The guard nodded and started running for the plane, dragging Jack along with him as Asmara led the way. Jack, as much as he was glad to see that helicopter, let himself get pulled along, unwilling to fight until he knew Mac was safe.

Meanwhile, the helicopter came down low enough for Cage and the other ten operatives to jump out as Asmara's men opened fire before taking off again to go pick up reinforcements. The Phoenix agents took cover before returning fire, ever conscious of where Jack was.

"Cage, do you see Mac?" Riley asked. She and Matty had already gotten a glimpse of Jack through Cage's body cam, but again, they didn't see their other colleague. Cage looked out from her cover, firing back at the guards, and shook her head.

"No; I don't see him anywhere," she reported grimly. She saw the man she recognized from Riley's list as Asmara board the plane, and saw Jack and the guard holding him start to follow, so she took aim and fired, killing Cain instantly. Jack jumped, turning to locate her, and as soon as she knew he was looking at her, she waved him over, signalling him to run to her.

Jack hesitated. He stood on the plane's cargo door, staring at her for a moment, before looking to his right at the inside of the plane. Several guards, Asmara, and, most importantly, Mac, were already situated inside. His friend was unconscious, now—from his previous injuries, a new injury, or some kind of drug, he wasn't sure—with his ankles restrained, and he knew that, with his hands restrained behind his back, even if he somehow managed to get past all the guards and wake him up, he couldn't drag his partner out. Abel had a gun on him, aimed at his friend's skull, and Asmara stood in the middle of the hold, looking at him expectantly. Jack's jaw twitched; the man was giving him a choice. He could leave if he wanted to. He could escape, go home, forget all this ever happened, and Asmara would not stop him. But if he did that, Mac was as good as dead. Jack looked back over at Cage, saw her wave him over again, and his jaw set.

"What the hell is he doing?" Riley demanded, her distress evident in her voice.

"He won't leave Mac," Matty told her grimly. Sure enough, Jack shook his head, turned, and walked into the plane, relinquishing what very well may have been his only chance at escape. Matty grit her teeth angrily. "Cage, you can't let that plane take off."

Cage ducked back behind her cover—a cargo van—hearing bullets slam into it from the other side and the plane start up.

"That's going to be a bit difficult," the agent growled, frustration in her voice. "There's too many of them; I can't get close!"

"Well do _something_ , Cage!" Riley snapped, desperation in her voice. "If they take off, we may never find them again!"

Cage didn't respond, peeking out from her cover to see many of the guards backing onto the plane. She turned to the agent beside her.

"Cover me," she ordered. The agent nodded, providing her with covering fire as she ran across the tarmac, sprinting for the plane. As she came into view, the guards on the plane raised their weapons, but Cage was faster, taking out the guards closest to the door before launching into hand-to-hand combat, using the cast on her left hand like a club and ignoring the pain from the bones underneath. In the back of the plane, Jack started to get up, wanting to help, but Asmara kicked him in the head, sending him back down with a grunt of pain. When he again tried to get up, he looked over and saw Abel with his gun pressed firmly against Mac's broken ribs, the action making his face crinkle in pain, even in unconsciousness. Jack, anger and frustration in his eyes, obediently sat back down, shifting his eyes to Cage worriedly.

Their colleague had already taken out seven of the twenty-six guards that were on the plane—the others being outside, dead or continuing to hold the small force of Phoenix agents back—and was working her way quickly and efficiently towards her colleagues. As the plane started moving slowly towards the runway, the cargo door raised just enough so that it wasn't dragging, Asmara lost his patience, pulling his own gun. He shouted something in Portuguese, and the guards all backed off, clearing out of the way. Before Cage or Jack had enough time to process, the traitor had aimed and fired three times at the attacking Phoenix agent.

" _Cage!_ " Jack shouted in horror, watching her stumble back and fall right off the back of the cargo door. When she was out, the cargo door closed the rest of the way, sealing Mac and Jack inside. It took only a few more seconds for them to take off. Jack stared at the cargo door, his eyes wide, and Asmara smirked at him, seeing some more of the hope fade from his enemy's eyes. Soon, Jack turned away, settling in for their flight, his heart heavy in his chest.

What the hell were he and Mac gonna do now?

* * *

 **Hey, everybody! Here I am, back at my procrastination! Thanks to everyone who has either encouraged me to keep writing or to, for God's sake, do my schoolwork! Took that forensics final...definitely didn't FAIL it, so that's good! Finished that paper, got an A! Maybe this is working for me...or maybe I should really get studying because I have 3 more finals that I haven't even touched yet and I hate myself.**

 **Also, to that one guest reviewer: I have no idea when this is going to be done. I've given up making plans; whenever I write, the characters just do what they want, anyway, so I don't have as much say in this as it seems. That sounded a lot creepier/more worrisome than I intended. Oh well. As for your other question, well...heheheheheh... *insert angel emoji here***


	10. Asmara

"Cage!" Riley's eyes were wide as saucers as she shouted into their coms.

"Cage, what's happening?" Matty's voice was steady, in control.

"Oh my God," Riley breathed, her voice barely audible over the chaos. Guilt and terror flooded through her; did she just get her new friend killed? She couldn't tell; Cage's body cam was destroyed by the bullets. The fallen agent didn't respond, which only deepened the analyst's concern.

"Cage, what's your status?" Matty repeated, ever the professional.

The other agents on the tarmac were yelling, too, about Cage, that they had an agent down. Almost none of them had body cams, and the ones that did didn't have a view of her. The agent who'd provided her cover fire, Simmons, ran towards her, relying on the others to take out the remaining six guards.

"Cage," the young man said urgently as he came to her side. There was blood under her body, and for a moment, Simmons went cold, even under the harsh sun. But upon closer inspection, he found that while the blood was under her head, the three bullets hit her chest. One destroyed her body cam, but all three of them were stopped by her vest. He checked her pulse, finding it not only still there but beating strong, and the source of the blood was a small head wound. He felt relief flood through him as his colleagues took down the last few guards, managing to get three of them alive.

"Cage is alive," he reported into his coms, hearing Riley's audible sigh of relief. "All three shots were to the vest, and she hit her head when she fell out of the plane; she'll be fine when she wakes up."

"What about Mac and Jack?" Matty demanded. Simmons stood up, turning and watching the plane carrying the two missing agents climb higher into the sky. His jaw tightened in anger and regret.

"We lost them."

* * *

When Cage came to, she was back in their base with Riley, lying on a cot behind the analyst's station. One of the Phoenix doctors—Emerson, she thought his name was—was sitting in an armchair to her left, reading a book. The agent groaned and shifted, and both Riley and the doctor turned to her.

"Hey, Cage," Riley sounded almost nervous when she spoke, guilt under her words. "How're you feeling?"

"Like I took three shots to the vest," Cage replied with a good-natured chuckle, sitting up carefully on the cot. Emerson was at her side quickly, taking out a penlight and shining it in her eyes. "What happened?"

"When you fell out of the plane, you hit your head," Riley explained.

"Yeah, you definitely have a borderline-moderate concussion," Emerson nodded. "The bullets also gave you a bruised sternum, and I'm almost positive that my colleague told you not to use that cast of yours to bash anyone's head in."

"Well, desperate times," Cage shrugged painfully, brushing her hair back from her face. She turned to Riley. "I'm pretty sure I know the answer, since we're still in Brazil, but...what happened to Mac and Jack?"

Riley's face fell. Cage could tell that she was barely holding it together, and felt a pang of sympathy.

"They couldn't stop the plane," the analyst told her. "They're gone. We lost them."

"For now," Cage reminded her. "I saw who has them. It's Selam Asmara."

The young woman's eyes lit up, happy to have a lead, and she turned back to her computer as Emerson helped Cage to her feet. Riley pulled up everything she had on the man, leaning back in her chair.

"Alright," she said with a sigh. "Selam Asmara. Fifty-six years old, born in Kalamazoo, Michigan, genius IQ, went on to work for the NSA at age twenty-three, married Victoria DeWalt a year later, led the charmed American life...and then turned traitor, started selling military secrets, got a lot of soldiers killed, and when investigators started closing in on him, he took his wife and ran to join his great-uncle and his cousins in Kuwait. His little brother followed shortly after. False intel about his location led to the deaths of six operatives and the capture of two others. Jack came into the picture about a year later. Asmara's wife turned him in in exchange for protection. Jack and his team went in, took out an entire cell, and captured Asmara and his great-uncle. They found the two missing operatives, but...they were too late to save them. One was DOA, and the other died of his injuries two months later. Selam's uncle died a few years ago, and not too long after that, Selam escaped while he was being transferred to another facility."

"And what about Selam's wife?" Cage jumped slightly when she heard Matty's voice; she hadn't realized they were in a call.

"They brought her back to the states," Riley told her, frowning at her screen. "She got a new identity...and a damn-well protected one; I can't find it."

"Keep looking," Matty ordered. "She might be Asmara's next target. Cage, can I talk to you alone for a moment?"

"Sure," Cage agreed. She gave Riley and the doctor a smile, then stepped out of the small rangers' station they'd commandeered, closing the door behind her before calling her boss.

"So, what did you see while you were on the plane?" Matty asked as soon as she answered the call, wasting no time.

Cage looked down, shifting uncomfortably, her stomach churning as she recalled the sight of her two friends. "Mac is in bad shape," she admitted finally. "Much, much worse than Jack; if I had to guess, I'd say Asmara is torturing Mac to get to him. Mac was covered in bruises, had a cut on his head, and his leg was absolutely coated in blood. Couldn't tell what the injury was. He was also soaking wet, so I'm betting they're waterboarding him. He was unconscious by the time I got there."

"And what do you think?" Matty pressed, trying to hide how much her description made her stomach churn. "Will they be able to hold out until we locate them?"

"I'm not sure," Cage admitted. "Physically, Jack will definitely be fine, and I think Mac is stubborn enough to hold out as long as we get to him soon. Psychologically...They're making Jack watch them hurt Mac; I think we can both imagine how well he's handling that. There's not a whole lot Jack wouldn't do for him."

"But would he tell Asmara whatever it is he wants to know?"

"I don't even know if Jack knows the answer to that question," Cage gave a helpless shrug.

Matty's jaw set in frustration. She knew Jack could only let Mac get hurt for so long before he'd have to do something to make it stop. After a moment, she shook her head.

"It doesn't matter," she concluded, sounding more confident than she felt. "We know who we're dealing with now; we have something to go on. We managed to get three of Asmara's people at the airstrip; I want you to talk to them."

"Done," Cage agreed. At that moment, Riley came outside.

"Bozer and the others found where they were keeping Mac and Jack," she reported.

"Where?" Cage demanded, pouncing on the lead.

"I just sent the coordinates to your phone."

"Keep me updated," Matty ordered from the other end of the line. Cage promised to do so, then hung up, climbing on a waiting ATV and heading for the coordinates Riley had given her.

She arrived at the compound—a small-ish, brick structure with only very small windows, well-camouflaged into the surrounding trees—to find several agents patrolling the outside and Simmons waiting for her out front.

"Ma'am," he greeted her as she turned off the ATV and dismounted. "Good to see you up and around. We've already cleared the building; there's no one inside."

"Where's Bozer?" Cage asked, not seeing him.

"Downstairs, waiting for you, ma'am," Simmons replied. "I can show you the way."

Cage nodded, allowing the agent to guide her into the building and down a set of dingy stairs to a much better-lit lower level. Bozer was standing about thirty feet down the hall, leaning back against the wall, his eyes a thousand miles away.

"I've got it from here," Cage told her escort, thanking him. As Simmons headed back upstairs, Cage walked towards Bozer.

"Boze," her voice seemed to jolt him from his thoughts. "What did you find?"

"Where they were keeping Mac and Jack," Bozer replied flatly, shifting from foot to foot in clear discomfort. Cage gave him a sympathetic look, putting her hand on his shoulder.

"I'm going to take a look; do you want to stay out here?" she offered, knowing how hard this was on him; it wasn't hard to see how much he and Mac depended on each other.

Bozer nodded gratefully, and Cage took a breath before walking into the room and closing the door behind her. Upon turning around, she froze, her stomach churning at the sight of the room. Covering her mouth lightly with one hand, she called Matty back. Her director answered almost immediately.

"What do you have, Cage?"

* * *

When Mac woke up, he was once again restrained to a chair. He could feel the tape and cable ties around his wrists and ankles, but didn't dare open his eyes, lest his captors decide to start in on him again. He needed a break—just a short little break—if he was going to keep going. He was still determined, still hopeful, still mentally ready and able to fight, but his body just needed to rest, even if only for a few hours.

"You don't have to fake it, kid," Jack's voice made the young agent relax slightly, reassuring him just with its presence. "They're not here."

Slowly, carefully, Mac opened his eyes and lifted his head, even more tension in his body dissipating when he saw his partner sitting across from him. He shifted in his chair, his jaw twitching as he blinked his slightly foggy vision clear.

"Jack," Mac's voice was weak and scratchy, and he cleared his throat before speaking again. "What happened?"

"What do you remember?"

"That asshole took me onto the plane...left you by the car...and when he got me onboard, he drugged me, and I passed out."

Jack nodded, his expression somber, lacking his usual smirk and smile. That alone made Mac's stomach clench.

"Riley found us," the older agent said at last. "Agents came to try and stop the plane. Cage was there."

"Well...obviously that wasn't successful," Mac didn't like the look on his face, the even tone of his voice.

"No," Jack shook his head. "Cage stormed the plane all by herself. Asmara shot her."

"Oh my God," Mac breathed, his voice shaking again, trying to keep it together. "Is...is she...?"

"I don't know," Jack told him helplessly. "She fell out of the plane before we took off."

"Shit," Mac muttered under his breath. The pair lapsed into silence for a minute or two before Mac found his voice again. "What are you thinking, Jack?"

"Just that...maybe this has gone on too long," the older agent admitted. Immediately, Mac shook his head, wincing as his skull throbbed with the movement.

"No, Jack, don't talk like that," he said desperately. "You can't seriously be considering giving up."

"Why not?" Jack challenged, hopelessness in his eyes. "Look at you, Mac. He's killing you. Cage might be dead. We're not in Brazil anymore, so I don't know how Riley's gonna find us. I can't watch you die and do nothing to stop it."

"By doing nothing, you _are_ doing something," Mac argued. "If you tell him whatever it is you may know about Victoria, then you're gonna die, she's gonna die, Cage will have gotten shot for nothing, and I will not only probably die, too, but I will have been tortured for nothing. By now, Riley knows who's got us; it's only a matter of time before she finds us."

"And until then?" Jack raised his eyebrows at him. "He's not going to go easy on you, Mac. It's going to get worse after that rescue attempt, probably. Are you sure you're ready for that?"

Mac hesitated, swallowing hard, his stomach lurching at the thought. His extensive injuries burned, and even breathing was a struggle. Still, he forced himself to nod.

"Yes," he confirmed, his voice not wavering for a moment. "You were the one telling me to trust Riley earlier, Jack; time to take your own advice."

"I ever tell you how much I hate it when you use my own words against me?" Jack asked with a sigh, not looking at him.

"Once or twice," Mac laughed until the pain became too much, coughing violently in his seat as Jack flinched from the noise. When the coughing fit subsided, Mac took as deep of a breath as he could bear. "Jack, promise me you won't tell him."

Jack studied him as he writhed in his chair, clearly trying hard to hide how much pain he was in. It broke his heart, seeing him struggle like that, seeing him trying to put on a brave face. Unsure if he was telling the truth, the former Delta nodded. "Okay."

"I want to hear you say the words," Mac growled. "Promise me, Jack."

Jack flinched, letting out a weary sigh, and forced himself to meet Mac's blue-eyed gaze.

"I promise you, Mac, that I will not tell Asmara what he wants to know."

Mac relaxed visibly in his seat, relief in his expression. The pair once again got quiet until the young Phoenix agent cleared his throat.

"Where are we?"

"Not sure," Jack replied with a shake of his head, happy for the subject change. "They drugged me, too, about an hour into the flight. Lower dose than yours, I bet."

Mac looked around their new prison, trying to get his bearings. This room was much darker than the last. It looked almost like a basement in a house, except devoid of furniture or any sort of boxes, save for their two chairs, a third chair set up between them, and the tool cart off to the left. Over his left shoulder was a set of rickety-looking wooden stairs. To his right, much to his dismay, there was a faucet in the wall about a foot and a half off the ground, like one might see in a garden. The ground beneath them was slightly sloped, likely towards a drain behind him, and when he looked down, sure enough, two pairs of handcuffs attached the front bar of his chair to a metal loop mounted to the floor. The young agent's shoulders sagged, dread in his expression, as he straightened back up.

"I'm so sorry, Mac," Jack sighed, guilt lining his features. Mac shook his head.

"Don't be," he said dismissively. "It could be worse."

"How?" the older man didn't seem convinced.

"Well, for starters, I could be all alone in here," the blond man pointed out. As much as it killed him that Jack was being forced to watch this, as much as he wished it didn't have to be that way, having him there was definitely a comfort. "No partner to keep me sane. No one to help me keep my head on straight. And, y'know...it could be Murdoc."

Jack couldn't help but laugh, finding Mac's version of optimism hilarious, in a sad kind of way. "Yeah, I guess there's that."

Mac smiled at him, happy to have gotten him laughing, but that smile vanished completely when they heard a deadbolt slide out of place at the top of the stairs and a door open wide. Heavy footsteps creaked down the wooden stairs, making Mac's heart pound in his chest, unable to see who was joining them but able to take a guess. He watched Jack's jaw tighten and his fists clench, and he let out a shuddering breath.

"Good to see you awake, Mac," Asmara's voice made the tortured young agent flinch involuntarily. His voice, usually light with sinister undertones, was now much harsher. "You almost had me worried for a minute."

Mac didn't answer, not daring to look up. He heard a second person come down the stairs, closing the door at the top, as Asmara took his seat, glancing between him and Jack, his mouth a grim line. Mac looked over to see where their second interrogator was, and was met with a brutal punch to his left orbital. The young agent cried out, turning away as a new cut above his eyebrow began to bleed. Abel shouted something at him in Portuguese, but again, Mac had no idea what was said.

"Forgive him," Asmara waved a dismissive hand. "He's upset. Your friends killed his partner. I'm sure you can imagine how devastating that feels."

Mac shook his head quickly, blinking blood from his eye, as Abel turned his attention to the tool cart.

"Now," Asmara gave a sigh, not bothering to hide his irritation. "Let's get back to it, then."

* * *

 **What's up, guys? Sorry this one is kind of short; I have one more final before I can work on this as much as I want. It's biochemistry. I got this. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed, and I promise, there will be a lot more action and whump in the next one. In fact, depending on how it goes, you might end up getting 3 chapters in a day. It'll make sense when you get there.**


	11. Lost and Found

Bozer woke up to his alarm, and this time, he didn't groan as he reached over to turn it off. The newly-trained agent sat up in his own bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. After thoroughly processing the compound Asmara was keeping Mac and Jack in, Matty had recalled them to Los Angeles; it didn't make sense to stay in Brazil, the one place they knew their friends weren't. She was right, of course, but that didn't make leaving feel any less like giving up.

With a shake of his head, he threw off his covers and stood up, walking out into the kitchen. The house was so quiet, now, without Mac. What was worse, though, was that, until Cage or Riley got something, there was nothing he could do to help find his missing friends. As a result, he was back to business as usual, working in the lab. Normally, he found the work soothing, relaxing, something he could get lost in, but these past few days, as Mac and Jack closed in on a week of being missing, it just felt like he was betraying them. His heart heavy, he went through the motions of getting ready for work, shoveling his breakfast into his mouth before he was out the door, his mind wandering of its own accord the whole drive to the Phoenix and the walk into the building. Before heading down to the lab, he popped into the war room, where he found Riley asleep sideways in one of the chairs, her laptop still on her lap. He looked at her sympathetically, knowing that this was just as hard on her as it was on him, and gently shook her awake. The analyst jerked, her eyes wide when she realized she'd fallen asleep. It took her a moment to process Bozer's face, but when she did, she relaxed.

"Hey," she greeted him drowsily. "You just get in?"

"Yeah," Bozer confirmed. "I'm guessing you never left."

Riley shook her head, "I can't until they're back."

"You find anything?"

Again, the analyst shook her head, frustration on her face. "I can't find the plane. I can't find Asmara. I can't find Victoria. It's like they all vanished without a trace."

"Well, do you have images of the other people on the plane?" Bozer asked. Riley blinked at him, not understanding. "I mean, if I were Asmara, I'd know that you know who I am, now, and that means you know my face, so if I'm trying to hide, I'm not going to be showing my face anywhere. But you have footage of some of the other guys who got away, right? Why not search for them? He's gotta be sending other people out for stuff like food, so someone, somewhere, is showing their face to the camera."

"Oh, my God, Boze, you're a genius," Riley breathed, turning her attention to her screen. "Why the hell didn't I think of that?"

"Because you're burnt out," Matty's voice made both of them jump and turn to the door. Their boss was standing there, watching them for who knew how long, again reminding them of a ninja. "You need to get some real sleep. Get your search set up and then go home; that is an order."

"But Matty—" Riley began to argue, but Matilda Webber was not hearing it.

"No buts," she said harshly. "Go. You're no use to me exhausted."

Riley hesitated, her jaw tightening, a myriad of emotions swirling in her dark-rimmed eyes. Finally, she nodded in agreement, and Bozer turned to Matty.

"Has Cage gotten anything from those guys yet?" he asked hopefully.

"She's pretty sure two of them don't know anything useful," Matty reported. "She's getting close on the third one."

"How close?" he pressed. Matty gave him a look.

"She's working as fast as she can, Bozer," she said evenly. Then her face softened. "Go get to work. I will let you know as soon as we get anything; I promise."

* * *

Not being able to breathe had become normal for Mac, expected. It was routine, now, for him to be searching desperately for air as water cascaded over the towel covering his face. Unfortunately, the routine didn't make it any less panic-inducing. No matter how hard he tried, by the time his torturer pushed his chair forward and took the towel off, he was always gasping, coughing, trembling, groaning as he tried to calm himself down again. The sound made Jack sick to his stomach, frustrated—furious—that he couldn't do anything to make it stop.

"Well, I'll tell you one thing," Asmara sighed, taking a sip from his coffee mug. "I am thoroughly impressed with your partner, Jack. I thought for sure he'd have given up days ago."

"Happy to disappoint," Mac gave a broken laugh that morphed into a grunt when Abel stabbed the baton into his shoulder. Across the room, Jack was shaking with rage—and pain, as he'd taken his fair share of beatings since they arrived, which he was glad to do, since it took some of the attention off Mac for a little while—with tears barely contained in his eyes.

"Unfortunately," Asmara's voice was harsh when he spoke, showing his irritation, "I'm getting tired of waiting. So I suggest you start telling me what I want to know before I lose my patience."

Jack looked over at his partner, and Mac met his eyes, shaking his head weakly. The younger agent was barely conscious in his chair, but his eyes still—somehow—were as strong as ever. The former Delta's jaw twitched as he dropped his head, only to jerk it back up when he heard Mac's voice.

"Shit," the blond man breathed as Abel picked up a corkscrew from the tool cart. "Oh, come on..."

Jack's heart pounded in his chest, watching Abel take the tip of the weapon and place it against Mac's left shoulder, adjusting the position to avoid the subclavian artery and vein, as the young agent's chest heaved with short, shallow, panicked breaths. With a smirk, Asmara's employee started pushing and twisting the sharp metal tool into Mac's flesh. MacGyver tried to hold back his cry for Jack's sake, but that didn't last long. The scream tore its way free of his throat almost of its own free will, reverberating off the cinder block walls to hit Jack from all angles.

"Mac!" Jack yanked against his restraints desperately, clear distress on his face. Blood seeped out of the wound, forging a path down Mac's shirt and arm as Abel continued twisting the weapon into his subject. Tears fell from Mac's eyes, pausing when his torturer changed his grip and continuing with every twist. Only when the weapon was screwed in almost up to the handle did he finally let go and step back. It took almost a full minute for Mac to be able to stop screaming, his trembling only getting worse.

"I swear to God, Asmara, I am going to tear you apart," Jack snarled, looking over at his enemy and feeling his anger flare even more when he saw the man smiling at him.

"You know exactly how to make this stop, Jack," Asmara shrugged, taking a slow sip of his coffee. "How much pain he's in is entirely up to you. I'm sure he'd appreciate a break."

Mac wanted to tell him to fuck off, but he didn't have the strength; instead, he choked out a strangled, "No."

Asmara laughed from his chair. "A glutton for punishment, he is. Alright, Mac; if you really want more, I'm sure my friend can crank it up a notch."

Mac's stomach dropped, looking up fearfully. The expression on his bruised face was like a punch to Jack's gut.

"Leave him alone, Selam," he snapped as Abel turned his attention to the cart, scanning it thoughtfully.

"No," the older man refused with a smirk. "I like the look on your face when he screams."

Mac flinched at his words, hating himself for letting the man use him to hurt his friend. Without warning—or even looking away from the cart—Abel jammed the baton into his wounded shoulder, eliciting a short cry before his muscles locked up and he couldn't move. Jack looked away, unable to look at him, feeling Asmara's smug smile on him.

When Abel finally let Mac go, Asmara leaned towards his hated enemy. "You better strap in, Jack," he chuckled, feeling a rush of excitement when Jack flinched. "It's only going to get so much worse."

* * *

Bozer practically ran into the war room after getting Matty's text, finding Cage, Matty, and a slightly more rested-looking Riley waiting for him.

"What did you find?" he demanded immediately.

"Them," Cage replied. "Or, at least, we think so."

"I'm about ninety-eight percent sure," Riley stated.

"More than enough for me," Bozer shrugged. "Where?"

"The guy in interrogation said that Asmara was moving them to the US, and said something about an abandoned housing development," Cage explained.

"So I focused my facial recognition on areas within five miles of such developments," Riley jumped in. "I got a hit in Nevada. Development foreclosed before it was finished, and I caught a couple of our guys at a supermarket four and a half miles away."

"I want you three with tactical on a plane right now," Matty ordered.

"On our way," Cage nodded, and with that, the three of them headed out to meet up with tactical and board the Phoenix jet. One way or another, they were bringing their friends home.

* * *

"Mac," Jack's voice was urgent as he glanced over at the stairs, behind the door at the top of which Asmara and Abel were talking, having left them only a few short minutes ago. Mac hadn't had a break for over three hours. The corkscrew was still embedded in his shoulder, but it wasn't the only bleeding injury. There were shallow yet painful cuts decorating his abdomen, each one slowly and carefully carved, forcing scream after scream from the young agent's throat. "Mac, c'mon, man; are you okay?"

Mac couldn't answer, no matter how much he wanted to assure his friend. He was just trying to breathe, having hardly been able to take a full breath between the water and the electricity. His shoulders shook with uncontrollable sobs. Jack felt his throat tighten, looking at him. That was it; he couldn't let this keep going. He couldn't allow his best friend to suffer like this.

"It's okay, buddy," Jack told him, his voice soothing and comforting to hide the defeat. "I'm gonna take care of it. I'll make it stop."

"No," Mac forced the word past his lips, having finally started to satisfy his lungs' craving for oxygen. "Don't. You promised."

"I can't let this continue," Jack shook his head. "I promised I'd get you out of here alive; that takes priority."

"Jack, please," Mac begged, his blue eyes shining with tears. "No."

His partner stared at him, his mouth hanging open, pure devastation on his face. But as the door at the top of the stairs opened again, he forced himself to nod in agreement, and Mac let out a breath of relief.

Asmara and Abel came down the stairs with purpose, and as Asmara plopped himself down in his chair, Abel didn't hesitate to grab one of the tools off the cart and walk over towards Mac, grabbing the young man by the jaw and lifting his head. Mac grunted in pain at the sudden movement, his chest still heaving with his panicked breaths.

"What the hell are you doing...?" Jack's voice betrayed his horror, his stomach dropping to the floor, as he tried to get a look at what tool their tormentor grabbed. Abel paid him no mind and forced Mac's mouth open wide. When the two prisoners heard the sound of a dental drill, they both began to panic.

* * *

 **!URGENT! THIS AUTHOR'S NOTE ACTUALLY HAS SOME SIGNIFICANCE SO IF YOU DON'T READ IT IT'S NOT MY PROBLEM IF YOU CAN'T HANDLE THE CONSEQUENCES!**

 **So, if this felt like an awkward place to stop, you're right; it is. That's because I'm putting this next scene in its own chapter, so that those who would prefer to skip it, can. It is particularly brutal, especially to those who have a problem with or phobia of anything related to teeth. If that is you, skip the next chapter. It's fine if you miss it; it won't affect the story. Just knowing that it was brutal af is enough.**

 **AT LEAST 3 PEOPLE HAVE TO SOUND OFF IN THE COMMENTS BEFORE I POST THAT SCENE. I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR POTENTIAL EMOTIONAL TRAUMA.**


	12. Teeth

**REMEMBER: IF YOU HAVE A PROBLEM WITH TEETH AND READ THIS ANYWAY, I AM NOT RESPONSIBLE FOR YOUR EMOTIONAL TRAUMA.**

* * *

"No!" Jack fought viciously against his restraints, desperation in his voice and expression as Mac whipped his head around, desperate to avoid his fate, tears of terror falling from his eyes. "Selam, if you do this, I will end you; do you hear me?"

"There is only one way to stop it, Jack," Asmara shrugged indifferently as Abel punched Mac in the gut, frustrated with his struggles. As the agent gasped for breath, he pushed his head back again and forced his mouth open. Before he could recover enough to fight again, Abel started the drill once more and got to work.

Jack recoiled from the sound of his partner's screams, which were the loudest ones yet, all the color draining from his face. Across from him, Mac's body spasmed as he felt his back right molar being drilled away at, smelled the acrid scent and tasted the bitter shavings and then the blood as Abel found the pulp cavity. The pain was excruciating, shooting down into his jaw, up into his sinuses, and around his entire skull. As much as he tried, he couldn't stop screaming, tears pouring from his eyes. His ears were ringing, both with pain and his own cries. When the farthest one in the back was done, Abel moved up one, continuing to drill even after Mac began choking and gargling on his own blood.

"Mac!" Jack couldn't restrain his tears this time, fighting viciously against his bindings, wanting nothing more than to go to his partner, get him away from Abel, away from this place. He watched as Abel pulled the drill back, shoved Mac's head forward to let him spit out the blood he was choking on, then yanked his head back up by his hair. He shifted around to the still-screaming agent's other side, and started to repeat the previous process on Mac's bottom left molars. Hearing Mac's screams get even louder proved to be just too much for the former Delta across from him.

"Stop!" he cried helplessly, his tears staining his torn shirt. "Please! Please, just stop it! Let him go!"

His voice could hardly be heard over his friend's cries, but Asmara heard him, and signaled to Abel to back off. Almost reluctantly, the torturer turned off the drill and dropped Mac's head.

* * *

 **See, that wasn't so bad, was it? I tried not to go totally overboard in my description, but even mentioning teeth to my dad makes him freak out, so I decided not to risk it and just put it in its own, skip-able chapter. Plus, as someone whose first filling was accidentally resting on her nerve, I feel for Mac right now. Okay, now, on with the story.**


	13. Inferno

"Have something to say, Jack?" Asmara asked. Jack looked over at Mac in horror, watching him sobbing as blood dripped out of his mouth. The younger agent could barely see; black spots danced in his vision as he tried to hear what was going on. A high-pitched buzzing made the task almost impossible, and wasn't helped by the fact that their voices all sounded echoey and far-away.

"I don't know where she is now," the former Delta admitted slowly, his voice trembling. "But I was standing right next to her when she got her new passport; I caught a glimpse of her new name."

Hearing his voice, it didn't take much for Mac to figure out what he was doing, and he tried to talk, beg him not to do this, but the words came out quiet, slurred, and jumbled. Jack flinched at the sound, unable to look at either him or Asmara.

"And?" Asmara prompted, his voice harsh.

"Katherine," Jack replied, utter defeat in his voice. "Katherine Del Mar. That's all I know; I swear..."

"I believe you, my friend," Asmara smirked victoriously. "And thank you for your help."

"You said you'd let him go," Jack reminded him. "If I talked, you said you'd let him go."

"Of course," Asmara agreed, laughing slightly. "And I will. After you're gone, and I have my hands on Victoria."

At this, Jack's head shot up, shock and horror in his eyes.

"If you think I'm just gonna leave him alone with you, you have another thing coming," Jack snarled. Asmara and Abel both laughed at him.

"Well, if you'd like me to just kill him, I'd be happy to oblige," Asmara shrugged, pulling his gun and aiming it at Mac. Jack's jaw set furiously as Abel went up the stairs and called a few other guards down. Realizing he had very little choice in the matter, Jack allowed himself to be cut free of the chair, pulled painfully to his feet, and to have his arms restrained behind his back.

"Jack," Mac's voice was weak and slurred as he tried to locate his friend in the swirling mess of his vision. "Jack...please..."

Jack's heart broke in his chest, hearing his partner's words, however difficult to decipher they were.

"It's gonna be okay, buddy," Jack lied as the guards pulled him towards the stairs. "Everything's gonna be okay, Mac."

"Jack, wait..." Mac watched him get pulled up the steps, confusion on his face, unsure of what just happened. In no time, he was left alone with Asmara and Abel.

Upstairs, the four guards escorting Jack had to fight to control him, now that two of his limbs were free; in spite of his pain, he was a soldier, after all. He knew that, if they got him outside, he was a dead man. So he fought with everything he had to get away, but unfortunately, with his injuries and the fact that he'd eaten nothing in seven days, the four men proved too strong for him, and before long, they'd dragged him out of the house in which their prison was located and shoved him into the trunk of a sedan, slamming it closed with finality. Jack gasped, his chest heaving as he tried to find a way out. The trunk was empty apart from him; he had nothing to work with. Still, he had to do something. So, as the car started up and started to move, he pulled his knees up to his chest and tried to work his hands under his body so that he could at least have them in front of him. The task took him only a couple minutes, after which time, he kicked out a tail light and shifted in the tight space, trying to figure out where he was, and if anyone was around for him to call for help. When he looked out the hole in the back of the car, however, he saw nothing but empty streets and half-finished houses. He was about to give up, exhaustion and defeat settling over him like weights, until he heard sirens ahead of them, and felt himself get thrown around in the trunk, grunting in pain, feeling his broken bones shift under his skin.

"Get down on the ground!"

"Hands where we can see them!"

"Don't even think about it!"

"Don't move!"

Each and every voice was familiar to the agonized agent in the trunk, and he felt relief wash over him like a tsunami.

"Jack!" It was Cage's voice, and even more relief threatened to sweep Jack away. "Get this trunk open! Mac! Jack!"

Before he could even respond, the trunk was forced open, and Jack shielded his eyes from the sudden rush of light.

"Jack," Now Riley's voice joined the mix, and Jack forced his eyes open. Seeing her made him almost want to weep with happiness, and he accepted Simmons' and Cage's help out of the trunk, waiting until they sliced his hands free before he pulled her into a tight hug, not caring how much it hurt.

"I knew you'd find us," he said into her shoulder as she clung to him. "I never doubted you."

"Jack," Cage hated to interrupt the moment, but they needed to get back to business. "Where's Mac?"

Immediately, Jack's eyes grew wide, and he started moving towards the car the agents arrived in, pointing back in the direction the car came from. "House, back that way," he said urgently. "We gotta hurry; c'mon!"

Riley, Cage, Bozer, and a couple members of the tac team jumped into the car, speeding back in the direction Jack told them. The wounded agent gave them directions as best he could, having made note of every turn they took.

"There!" Jack pointed through the windshield at a house with a crooked mailbox. "That's the one; I saw that mailbox as they were putting me in the—"

He didn't get to finish his statement; before anyone knew what was happening, the house in question exploded with enough force to make Cage swerve and Jack fall over in the back of the car. As the car came to a stop and everyone began to process the scene before them, Jack fumbled the door open and half-stepped, half-stumbled out, staring slack-jawed at the blazing inferno that now consumed the building where he'd last seen Mac. He walked a few steps towards it before his legs gave out and he fell to his knees, utter horror on his face.

"No," he breathed, disbelief evident in his expression. "No, no, no... _Mac!_ "

He stood up and started running towards the fire, only to be stopped by Cage and Simmons. Bozer stood by the car, his eyes shining, mouth agape, and hands on his head. Riley hadn't moved from the car, hardly daring to breathe.

"Let me go!" Jack shouted furiously, tears streaming from his eyes as he fought his colleagues.

"Jack, stop!" Cage snapped, struggling to keep control over her grieving colleague, trying to keep her own emotions in check. Jack barely even heard her.

"Let me go, Cage! He's still in there! I can still get him out!"

"Jack!"

"Let me go!"

"Jack!" This time, it was Bozer's voice, and it cracked when he spoke. Jack stopped fighting and turned back to him, found him lowering his hands and looking at him with crushing despair on his face.

"He's gone."

Hearing Bozer say it somehow made it feel real, and Jack felt all the air leave his lungs. He slowly sank back down to his knees, his shoulders shaking with sobs, and Cage followed him down, holding him as he cried, her heart in her throat. Bozer was right, and she knew it. No one could have survived that blast.

Not even MacGyver.

* * *

 **Alright, well, that was the last chapter until after my final! Hope you all enjoyed! Bye!**

 **3:) XD**


	14. Dentist

Jack rested in his hospital bed at the Phoenix, his head turned towards the window, barely even blinking. He hadn't spoken a word since the ride back to the plane. He barely even took notice when people tried to talk to him, and eventually, they gave up trying, knowing he'd need time before he was ready to even try talking to anyone; he wouldn't even look at them. He was almost still in shock; in spite of his initial meltdown, he wasn't sure it had really hit him yet. Some part of him still expected Mac to be in the bed beside him, which was why he kept his head turned the other way; it felt better to pretend.

"Jack," the former Delta jumped, startled, and turned to see Matty standing by his bedside. From the look on her face, it wasn't the first time she'd said his name. The usual teasing harshness in her expression was gone, and she looked far too sympathetic. It made his stomach lurch.

"How're you feeling?" his boss asked gently. Jack didn't answer, dropping his eyes and turning back to look out the window.

"Jack, I am so sorry," Matty said sincerely, her chest aching, seeing him so shut down. "If there was anything I could do..."

"Well, there isn't, Matty, so don't bother," it was the first time since the fire that Jack had spoken, and there was no spark in his words. It was as if they were being spoken by a dead man. The sound made Matty flinch.

"We recovered five bodies from the house," Director Webber began, but Jack cut her off, turning back to look at her with his brown eyes shining.

"I want to see him," the wounded agent stated, his voice tight. Matty gave him another sympathetic look, but shook her head.

"They were unrecognizable, Jack," she told him as gently as she possibly could. "They're just bones; he doesn't look like Mac."

"I want to see him," Jack repeated with a growl. "I need to see him, Matty. Please."

"Why?" Matty challenged. She didn't like the idea of him seeing what was left of MacGyver's body; it would be hard enough to get him back to normal as of right now, but some things the brain can't unsee, and this, she was sure, was one of them. The only reason they could even guess that the body belonged to Mac was because it was the right height, right build, right age, and had been found in the right part of the house; the skin had been almost totally burned away, and the skull had been crushed under the debris.

Jack looked away again, not wanting to say why he was so insistent; he knew she'd just sign him up for some shrink and dismiss the idea he'd been batting around in his mind for hours on end. It didn't appear as though he had to voice his reason, however; Matty seemed to read his mind.

"You don't think he's dead," she concluded after a moment. Jack grit his teeth and shook his head, turning back to her.

"No, Matty, I don't," he confirmed, his eyes just daring her to tell him he was wrong. The look on his boss's face was almost painful.

"Jack, no one could have survived that," she reminded him gently.

"You're right," Jack agreed. "If they were in there."

"Jack—"

"I was in that trunk for around five, six minutes," he interrupted her again. "Then I talked to Riley and Cage for a little, and then we all went back to the house; I was gone at least ten minutes. That's more than enough time for Selam to have gotten Mac out of there."

"Then who did we find in the house?" Matty challenged.

"I don't know," Jack gave a dismissive scoff. "And frankly, I don't care; none of those bodies is Mac. And I'll know that for sure if I see them."

"And if it is Mac?" Webber raised an eyebrow at him, growing frustrated. "What if you get a look at the body we're pretty sure is Mac, and you realize it really is him? He's not a pretty sight, Jack; you don't want that seared in your memory as the last time you saw him."

"It's not him, Matty," Jack growled stubbornly.

"How do you know?"

"Because it can't be!" With this, a tear escaped the corner of Jack's eye, and he flinched at the stress the yelling put on his bruised and broken ribcage.

Again, sympathy flooded his boss's expression, and Jack looked away, shaking his head. He shouldn't have said anything; now she was just going to be keeping him farther from the investigation.

"Dental records are going to take time because of the building collapse," Matty told him as gently as she could, watching Jack's jaw twitch and his eyes close, forcing more tears to fall down his bruised cheeks. "I'll let you know as soon as we know for sure. I'll debrief you tomorrow."

With this, she reached over and gave his hand a reassuring squeeze, then left him alone. Jack continued staring out the window. He knew he couldn't be certain that Mac wasn't the one they found burned and buried under the rubble, but he was sure that if there was even the slightest possibility that he was still alive, he had to cling to it, and not just for his own sake. If Mac was still alive, that meant Selam was still alive, and as long as that was true, it wasn't just Mac in danger—everyone was. No one was going to take him seriously. He knew that, and he didn't blame them; he knew it sounded like he was just angry and grieving. No one was going to stop and ask themselves, what if he was right? And that could get a lot of people killed.

So, if Matty wasn't going to give him the information he needed, he was going to have to get it himself.

* * *

Late that night, after the doctors had checked in on him for the last time before turning in, Jack opened his eyes slowly, carefully surveying the area around him to make sure he was alone. Only when he was certain of this did he disconnect his IV from the needle in the back of his hand and threw the covers off, carefully swinging his legs over the side of the bed and standing up, wincing in pain and suppressing a groan. The thin hospital sweats he was given did little to keep back the chill of the room, but he shrugged it off. Quietly, not wanting to disturb anyone working late and have them sound the alarm, he started creeping out of the hospital wing, pausing at the door to make sure the hall was clear before slipping out.

 _So far, so good_ , he thought to himself. He made his way down the hall to the elevator and immediately pressed the button for B3, the morgue. The ride down was agonizing, and his stomach was churning, knowing that, if he got there, and it really was Mac in that freezer...

No. He couldn't even think like that. It wasn't him. It couldn't be. Mac was still alive somewhere, and he needed help. There was no alternative. He was not dead. He wasn't.

Finally, the elevator doors slid open, and he almost crashed right into Bozer as he tried to step off.

"Whoa," the younger man stepped back in shock. "Jack, what the hell are you doing? Shouldn't you be in bed?"

"Not now, Boze," Jack pushed past him, striding purposefully towards the morgue doors, and the new agent struggled to keep up.

"Jack, you don't want to see him," Bozer insisted, grabbing his arm and pulling him back. It took everything in the former Delta not to take him down. "Even I couldn't open the bag. That's not the way you want to remember him; trust me."

"I'm gonna remember him alive, Boze, because that's what he is," Jack snapped, trying to keep going towards the door at the end of the hall, but his friend blocked his path.

"Jack, don't."

"Bozer, either get out of my way, or get punched in the teeth," Jack snarled, not in the mood to argue. Bozer blinked at him in shock; Jack had never talked to him like that. The older agent felt terrible for causing that look of borderline fear on his face, but still, he shoved past him, walking towards the morgue door. Behind him, Bozer quickly called Matty; either Jack had gone crazy, or he was about to, and whichever one it was, he did not want to have to try and talk him down alone.

Jack was fully aware that Bozer was calling someone, but he didn't care. He had to know for sure. He had to prove he was right, both to himself and everyone else. He paused at the door, knowing that if he walked in, he couldn't turn back. The wounded agent took a deep breath, then pushed his way into the cold, dark morgue. To his right were the freezer drawers, stacked two high in a band in the middle of the wall, stretching from one side to the other, fourteen of them in total. With his jaw tightening, he got to work, pulling on a pair of nitrile gloves from a nearby box and opening door after door, looking inside, trying to find the body that Matty claimed was his partner. Most of the drawers were empty, and he got through six of them before he finally started to find body bags.

The first one he found was unrelated to Mac, already identified as a J. Alvarez. Jack slid him back into the wall and pulled out the next drawer. This one was part of the right case, but wasn't this supposed Mac. He had to find two more bags—both John Does—before he finally found one tagged "MacGyver, A. (Unconfirmed)," his hands starting to shake both from the pain he was starting to notice more, now that he was off his painkillers, and the sight of Mac's name, unconfirmed or not, on a body tag. Taking a deep breath, he dropped the tag and reached for the zipper, but at that moment, Cage, Matty, and Riley all burst in; Bozer had elected to stay outside, unable to be near Mac's corpse for another second.

"Jack, drop it," Matty ordered harshly, although her eyes were compassionate. "I told you to leave this alone."

"Back off, Matty," Jack shot back, frustration on his face. "I need to know. You have no right to keep this from me."

"As your boss, yes I do," Matty retorted.

"Jack, please," Riley's voice trembled, tears in her eyes; she was well aware of what seeing Mac in that condition would do to the man she'd come to see as a father, how much it would destroy him, and she would have done anything to avoid that. She'd already lost Mac; she couldn't lose Jack, too. "Please, just go upstairs; go back to bed. Don't do this...please..."

Jack's eyes closed for a moment, and he shook his head.

"Sorry, Riles," he said with a sigh. "But if no one is going to believe me, then I have to prove it myself."

Before anyone could say anything else, Jack ripped open the zipper, pushing the bag open wide. At the sight of the charred corpse, he nearly lost what little food he'd managed to choke down since his rescue, and he covered his mouth with his hand, turning away for a second before composing himself and turning back. Riley took a step towards him, but Cage grabbed her arm and stopped her.

"It's too late, now," she said quietly. "Might as well let him get what he came for, and be here for the fallout."

Jack barely heard her. He was too busy studying the body. Matty was right; it was basically just bones, all the flesh and identifying marks burned away. He knew that whomever this was probably didn't feel a thing, the blast likely killing him before the fire, but still—what an awful way to go.

Aside from the charred flesh and lack of fingerprints or usable DNA making identification next to impossible, the body was broken. Not necessarily broken like Mac's body had been, but the collapse of the building really took its toll. The skull was in pieces, but the mandible was mostly intact, apart from the fact that it was missing half the teeth. Still, Jack grabbed for it, picking it up and studying it. After a moment, he let out a shuddering breath, put the jaw down, took off his gloves, and covered his face with his hands. His shoulders shook with sobs as he slid down the wall, and Riley went to his side, hugging him tightly, her heart breaking for him.

"Do you believe it, now?" Matty asked quietly, her lips pressed together as she tried to keep her composure; she wasn't sure she'd ever seen Jack cry like that before.

"No," Jack's voice was muffled behind his hands, but there was no mistaking what he said. Matty, Cage, and Riley looked at each other, confused and concerned, as Jack lowered his hands to reveal a smile on his face, and the trio realized his tears were of relief, not heartache. "But you certainly should believe _me_ , now."

"What are you talking about?" Cage demanded, hesitant to be hopeful on the word of the grieving operative.

"When...Asmara was...torturing Mac," Jack explained, grimacing as Riley helped him back to his feet, "he drilled into his teeth. His molars. He started with the right bottom two, and didn't get all the way through the left. The point is, this body? The molars are still in its jaw, but none of them have holes. That's not Mac. That's not our boy. Which means he wasn't in the explosion, which means he's still alive, and so is Selam."

Cage gaped at him, moving towards the body to get a look at the molars in question. Sure enough, all four were intact—or, at least, none had any holes to speak of.

"He's right," she reported, turning back to Matty. "If Mac got his teeth drilled, this can't be him."

Jack laughed tearfully, painfully, so relieved to hear someone else confirm it that he could barely stay upright. Riley steadied him, her expression blank as she tried to process what was going on.

Matty's expression mimicked hers, but eventually, she shook her head.

"Well, then, let's all stop standing around here," she said with a grim expression. "If Mac's still alive, Asmara still has him; we need to find him yesterday. Let's bring our boy home."

* * *

Mac started drifting in and out of consciousness from almost the second Jack was taken upstairs. He barely even registered the fact that he was moving, or that they'd stopped, and he certainly had no idea where he'd ended up. He was lying down, now; he understood that much. His sore wrists were restrained above his head, but his weight wasn't pulling on them. He could feel something relatively soft underneath him. His head and jaw throbbed painfully, his ears were still ringing, and he could feel sweat dripping down his skin in spite of how cold he was. Blood was still leaking from his teeth, and every so often, he'd have to either turn his head and spit it out or swallow it. His eyes felt as though they'd been glued shut, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't look around. He tried listening to his surroundings, but everything still sounded as though he were hearing it through an echoey cave on a delay.

 _Well, technically, you are hearing things on a delay,_ his brain reminded him. He chased the thought—the clearest one he'd had in hours—but the sound wave equations and numbers soon became fuzzy, and the pain in his skull quickly made him abandon the idea. He wasn't sure how much time passed or how many more times he'd lost consciousness before he suddenly felt a warm, gentle hand touch his bruised, swollen jaw. Immediately, he recoiled from the fingertips, groaning and whimpering.

"Ah, Mac," Asmara's voice. Mac felt his stomach drop, trying and failing to open his eyes. His arms were down at his sides again, he realized, and he could vaguely see a light behind his eyelids. "You _are_ awake."

"I need you to open your mouth," Mac didn't recognize this voice. It was a man's voice, and it shook slightly, as if he were afraid. The tortured young agent felt fingertips graze his jaw again, and again, he jerked his head away. The pain from the movement was excruciating, but the desire to keep his mouth closed was intense enough that he didn't care. He pressed his teeth together as tightly as he dared, his chest heaving.

"Mac," Asmara's voice was back, and the exhausted agent tensed as much as he could, hearing him come closer. "This is Doctor Tomlinson. He's trying to help you and make sure those teeth of yours don't get infected and end up killing you."

 _And whose fault would it be if that happened, asshole?_ Mac thought to himself, still unable to make himself speak or open his eyes.

"Now, we don't have all day, so open your mouth, or this nice doctor is going to get a bullet through his brain," Asmara continued. Mac felt a chill shoot down his spine, and he heard the new man's breath catch in his throat. "Nod if you understand me."

Mac's brow twitched, every sound still painful, but nodded ever so slightly.

"Good," Asmara approved, his condescending tone making Mac's anger flare. This time, when he felt gloved fingers gently touch his traumatized flesh, he forced his jaw to relax, and allowed the doctor to slowly ease his mouth open.

"Jesus," he breathed in shock, seeing how badly Mac had been tortured and suddenly understanding completely why he'd refused to open his mouth.

"Can you fix it?" Asmara sounded impatient, and Mac flinched, wrenching his jaw away from Tomlinson, turning to the side and spitting out his blood, coughing violently again. When the coughing subsided, he turned back, breathing hard.

"Not as well as I should in the timeframe you're giving me," Tomlinson responded, opening Mac's mouth again. "I should be taking the two on the right out completely and giving him implants."

"It doesn't have to be pretty, doc," Asmara growled, making the doctor flinch. "He just needs to not get sick and be able to talk; what's the bare minimum for that?"

"Bare minimum..." Tomlinson let out a sigh, looking at Mac's teeth again. "Double root canal for the right two, pop in a couple temporary crowns...left one could maybe get away with a filling."

"Do it," Asmara ordered. "Quickly."

Mac could hear wheels sliding across the floor, then a pause, followed by more sliding.

"What's his name?" Tomlinson asked.

"Mac."

"Okay, Mac," the doctor let out a shaky breath. "I need you to hold still, okay?"

The wounded Phoenix agent nodded as best he could. He felt a small pinch in his gums, which startled him, but was so minor compared to his other injuries that he barely reacted. He felt another pinch on the right side of his mouth, then one more on the left, and in a few minutes, his jaw was numb. He couldn't remember ever being as grateful as he was in that moment.

"Alright," Tomlinson cleared his throat, trying to calm himself down. "Let's get started."

* * *

 **LOL at everyone who responded with some variation of "Wait, what?" and "IS THIS THE END?!" I really needed the laughs these past couple days, so thank you.  
** **But also shame on you for thinking I could ever kill that adorable little golden retriever puppy. I'm not a monster. Usually.  
** **Anyway, I really hope you guys liked this chapter. I have finished my finals and begin my 2 day journey home tomorrow, so I will be writing as much as I can for the next month. Not sure if it'll be done in that amount of time. Characters do what they want; I have very little actual control, here. Thanks for reading!**


	15. Lie

Mac wasn't sure when he'd passed out, only that he had. The last thing he remembered, he could hear Tomlinson hollowing out his bottom right molars, feeling a faint tugging through the novacaine. By the time he came to again, his arms were back above his head, he still couldn't really feel his jaw, and he was lying down again. He rested there silently, listening to the room. He could hear Asmara and his torturer—the man Jack had dubbed Abel—talking somewhere to his left. It was in Portuguese, so he still couldn't understand anything, even if he could hear it clearly. Running his tongue gingerly across his molars, he found that the holes had been filled. His eyelids still felt heavy, and he kept them closed, not wanting either of his captors to know he was awake; he knew he wouldn't like what they had planned for him, now that they had moved again.

Jack. Where was Jack? What happened to him? The last half hour in the basement was such a blur, but he knew his partner had been taken upstairs first. He wasn't sure why. Listening closely, he couldn't hear anyone else besides his two captors. That could just mean that Jack was unconscious, or didn't feel the need to talk—although, the latter was unlikely, knowing him—but he had the sinking feeling that he wasn't there at all. And if he wasn't there...where was he? The tortured young agent wasn't sure he wanted to know the answer, knowing the less than amicable history between him and their captor. If they were going to take them both, they probably would have taken Mac up first to keep control over Jack. So, since they didn't do that...

No. He couldn't think like that. He couldn't afford to think like that, if he was going to make it out of there. If Jack wasn't with him, then he was alive and looking for him. There was no alternative.

After lying there for several minutes, allowing himself to rest, he knew that he had to get on with it, and better to initiate himself than have one of his captors try to rouse him, as he was sure they would do so none too gently. Carefully, he started shifting his head around, groaning as he pinched his eyes shut. He heard his captors stop talking, followed by footsteps coming his way as his eyes fluttered open for a moment, revealing terribly blurry vision that he tried to blink away.

"Mac," the wounded agent flinched from the sound of Asmara's voice. "Good to see you awake."

Mac didn't answer, blinking his vision clear. He felt the metal bar to which his wrists were restrained and grabbed it, pulling himself up with a grunt of pain, rolling slightly to his left as his face contorted, swallowing his cries as he carefully sat up on what he realized now was a cot. As he pried his eyes open again, he noticed a few things. First, the corkscrew was gone from his left shoulder, which made him wonder how out he'd been to not feel that. Second, he was very minimally restrained; only his wrists were attached to the cot by cable ties, one binding them both together and another binding that tie to the cot's frame. Third, Abel was standing on the opposite side of the the small—about eight feet by eight feet—room, looking even angrier than usual, with his arms folded, his jaw tight, and staring at him with hatred on his face, and Mac wondered what he'd done to offend the man, now. Fourth and most concerning, Jack was indeed not with him. Finally, his eyes settled on Asmara, who was sitting in front of him at a small table, having turned the chair to face him.

"What happened?" the agent asked finally, his voice weak.

"You passed out," Asmara replied, studying him appraisingly. "Again."

Mac nodded, looking around for a moment or two, allowing his thoughts to clear. "Where's Jack?"

"Dead."

A chill shot down Mac's spine as all the breath left his lungs. He slowly turned back to face Asmara, devastation on his face.

"What?"

"Dead," the older man repeated. "When my men took him upstairs, they put him in a car, drove him out to the desert, and killed him. This shouldn't be a shock to you, Mac; I told you he was going to die."

Mac did his best to swallow his tears and steady his breathing, not wanting to reveal how upset he was. He kept repeating to himself, over and over and over again, _It's a lie. He's lying._ After a moment, he forced himself to speak again.

"Then why am I still alive?" he demanded. "Why keep me here?"

"Well, I will admit that I was lying earlier, when I said I'd let you go," Asmara leaned back in his chair with a sigh. "I planned on killing you in front of him like he killed my little brother in front of me. But like I said before, Mac...you have piqued my interest. I want to know more about you."

"Like what?" Mac asked, his stomach dropping to the floor as he twisted his wrists in the cable ties, his heart pounding.

"Like...who are you?" Asmara suggested, giving a shrug.

Mac didn't respond, his jaw tightening. Asmara laughed slightly.

"See, at first, when we dragged you out of the helicopter and you didn't have a gun, I thought maybe you were an analyst or something, some kind of civilian contractor that good ol' Jack was assigned to protect," he explained. "You were both dressed in the same general attire, so wherever you went before the helicopter, you went there together. But the way you made a cane out of a mop, charged a phone with a flashlight, made a flamethrower out of roach spray—"

"Pretty much everyone knows that last one," Mac pointed out, dropping his eyes.

"True," the older man allowed. "But still...no analyst could do that. And no mere analyst could endure the kind of torture you did at all, let alone endure it, help facilitate an escape attempt, endure even more of it, and still, through it all, assure their partner that they were fine. An analyst would have broken long before Jack did. But Jack broke first. So that begs the question...who the hell are you?"

Mac didn't answer. He sat staring at the floor, his chest heaving as his heart started beating fast. Asmara just smirked at him.

"That's alright, Mac," he said with a sigh, gesturing to Abel, who came forward and pulled out a knife, making the Phoenix agent shift back from him. His torturer cut the tie tethering him to the cot and pulled him to his feet. "I'll get it out of you eventually."

* * *

"Jack," for the second time since his rescue, Matty's voice jolted Jack from his thoughts. He, Matty, and Cage were in the war room while Bozer helped Riley try and track down Mac and Victoria. Cage was taking a break from interrogating the two men who'd been in the car with him when they found him to help Matty debrief him.

"Sorry," Jack blinked and shook his head, adjusting his position in his chair and grimacing, his hand gently covering his broken ribs. "Yeah, I don't remember what happened on the helicopter after we boarded. Mac said he woke up and couldn't wake me or the pilot before we crashed. I woke up tied to a chair."

"What did Asmara want?" Matty asked quietly.

"To know where his ex was," Jack sighed, his thin facade of calm straining as he recalled his time with his old enemy. "Victoria. I tried telling him I didn't know, but...he wouldn't listen. So, he brought Mac into the room...kid was already so messed up from the crash..."

He trailed off, his eyes going out of focus. Matty and Cage traded glances, concern in their eyes.

"Ah..." this time, Jack snapped himself out of it. "After a while, we tried escaping...it was mostly Mac's doing, really...but he was hurt. He had a stab wound in his leg, among other things. He'd lost a lot of blood, he was in a lot of pain, and...God, I pushed him too hard..."

"Jack," Cage's voice was gentle, yet firm, and Jack looked up at her. After a moment, he nodded. She was right; this wasn't the time for blame.

"Well, obviously, we didn't make it out," he continued. "I think all we really managed to do was make Selam curious about Mac. Before that, he didn't really care who he was, as long as I cared about him."

"What about after you got to Nevada?" Matty prompted.

"Well, ah..." Jack cleared his throat. "They drugged us during the flight, so neither one of us knew where we were. Asmara was getting impatient; he...he started pulling out all the stops with Mac...Poor kid couldn't stop screaming...And then, ah..."

He trailed off again. He knew he had to tell them that he'd told Selam about Victoria, but he couldn't bring himself to say the words, to admit what he'd done. Before he even knew what he was doing, he was talking again, almost as if he didn't have control.

"I guess he got frustrated enough that he decided he was done with me," he said evenly, not looking at either one of them. "After he was done...drilling Mac's teeth...his goons dragged me upstairs and put me in that car, and you guys know what happened after that."

Matty and Cage looked at each other again. Of course Cage knew that he was hiding something—even if he'd done it well, she would have known—but Matty caught it, too. A silent conversation passed between the two women before Matty spoke up.

"Cage, could you go check on Riley and then get back to our two guests in interrogation?" she requested firmly. Cage nodded dutifully and stood up, heading out of the room, leaving Jack alone with their boss.

"Jack," at the sound of her voice, Jack's eyes closed, his jaw twitching. "What aren't you telling me?"

The field agent wouldn't open his eyes, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, putting his face in his hands.

"Whatever it is, you need to tell me," Matty urged. "What happened down there?"

Jack shook his head in refusal, his throat getting tight as he dropped his head, letting it hang as his hands slid around his face and settled over his ears, as if that would block out his memories of Mac's screams. His eyes pinched shut, trying to get rid of the image of his partner's body jerking in the chair, of the tears streaming from his eyes.

"Jack, what did you do?" Matty's voice wasn't angry or accusatory. Instead, it was gentle, compassionate, almost pitying.

For several seconds, Jack didn't say anything. When he finally did lift his head, the look on his face made his boss cringe.

"They were killing him, Matty," the man admitted at last, his voice trembling. "He barely knew what was going on half the time...he was in so much pain...he could barely breathe, he was choking on his own blood, he...He was going to die if I didn't do something...I couldn't...I couldn't let him die...I didn't have a choice. I had to tell him something."

"What did you tell him?" Director Webber's voice remained soft, her expression never changing.

Jack shook his head, looking off for a second before responding.

"When we raided the camp that Selam and his buddies were hiding out in," he began slowly. "I...well, after I saw what happened to Charlie and Donny, I...I may have lost my temper and fractured Selam's eye socket. So, to keep me from killing that son of a bitch, I got assigned to escort Victoria back to the States. I knew what new name she was getting, and I knew where she was going."

"And you told Selam," Matty concluded with a slight nod. She was surprised when he shook his head.

"No," he denied. "I was going to. I was going to tell him everything. I was going to sell her out to save Mac, but...first I remembered that I'd promised I wouldn't, so I decided to just give up her name; what harm could that do, right? But then, Mac tried to tell me not to. Or, at least, I assume that's what he was trying to say; I couldn't understand him at that time...I had to tell him something, or he was going to start hurting him again, and I couldn't...I couldn't keep watching that...so, I gave up her new first name, then changed my mind mid-way through. I gave him the wrong last name."

"Okay..." Matty seemed confused. "So, what's the problem? That was smart, Jack."

"No it wasn't," Jack growled in frustration. "It got me separated from him. If I'd kept my mouth shut for just a little longer, we would both be out of there right now, and that son of a bitch would be in a hole somewhere. Now, when Selam finds out I lied...he's going to kill Mac out of spite. He's going to kill him, and it's going to be my fault."

"No, Jack, listen to me," Matty's voice took on a firm edge. "It's not your fault that you got separated, and Mac is not going to die. We're going to find him, whatever it takes. We're going to get him out of there. Do you understand me?"

Jack hesitated, then gave a short nod.

"Good," Matty approved. "Then go tell Riley what Victoria's new name really is, and then go get something to eat; I need you at the top of your game right now, Dalton. And so does Blondie."

* * *

 **Hey, guys. I'm back. Sorry for a shorter one and a distinct lack of action, but after driving 16 hrs with a cat in the car and now having to sort out all the Christmas presents I haven't gotten yet, I haven't had a ton of time to write. It'll be better now that I've gotten most of the gifts sorted, but I wanted to get this out to you guys. I hope you enjoyed!**


	16. Victoria

Mac jerked in place when the cold water fell over him, his now-bare feet scrambling on the cold concrete beneath them. He hadn't meant to pass out again, but he certainly wasn't out for long. Asmara and Abel had moved him into another room—not much larger than a supply closet—lit only by a bare, dim light bulb hanging from the ceiling. Asmara was sitting at a small table near the door, drinking coffee and almost ignoring him as he scrolled through something on his phone. The young agent was gasping, standing on trembling knees, most of his weight on his right leg. His hands were up above his head, still bound with the cable tie but now also bound with rope, which had been fed over a metal bar mounted to the ceiling and was tied off on a hook on the back wall. He was gasping, shaking visibly, grunting occasionally with the effort it took just to stay upright. His shoulder wound was straining with his hands stretched high above him, his leg wound burned, and his ribs were shifting agonizingly beneath his skin with every breath. The only good thing about his current setup was the fact that the waterboarding had become next to impossible—though it was entirely possible that they were just trying to give his lungs a break and it would be coming back soon. The novacaine had worn off by that point, but thanks to Doctor Tomlinson—who, Mac realized, had probably been killed after helping him—his blinding jaw pain had been reduced to a more-than-bearable dull ache, mostly on the right side.

"Good morning, Mac," the cheerfulness in Asmara's voice was mocking, and Mac glared at him as Abel put the bucket down to his left. "Feel like talking yet?"

"No more than I did when you asked me that two hours ago," the Phoenix agent's voice was weak, but the message came across anyway.

"It was more like one hour ago," Asmara shrugged, acting completely unbothered by his stubborn refusal to cooperate. "But I can understand the mistake."

"You're wasting your time," Mac grumbled, his eyes falling shut as he tried to calm his racing heart. "I'm not an agent. I work for a think tank, for God's sake. That's all. Your first assumption was right; Jack is just my escort."

"Really?" Asmara sounded less than convinced. "So, if you just work for a think tank, what were you doing in Brazil?"

"Sometimes people ask for my company's help solving some problem or another," Mac shrugged painfully. It was mostly true; it was just that that 'someone' was usually the US government. "Some problems can only be solved in person, so I come help in person. If my company's risk assessment department decides the area isn't safe, Jack comes with me. That's it. I find unusual solutions to unusual problems; that's why I was able to figure a way out of that room. I'm not an agent."

"I don't believe you," Asmara told him bluntly. "No civilian would be holding out as well as you are."

Mac didn't have an answer to that, and Asmara smiled, putting his phone down and leaning back in his chair.

"See, Mac, I haven't simply been plotting petty revenge since I got out of that _delightful_ circle of hell they called a prison," he told his captive, studying him appraisingly. "Well, petty revenge is part of it; don't get me wrong. But that's not the big picture. And before I am comfortable carrying out that big picture, I want to know who knows about me. I am an extremely patient man, Mac; believe me, you will give up long before I do. You don't have Jack to keep you grounded anymore, and I saw how fast Donny broke down after Charlie died right next to him—I assume Jack told you about them. You may as well give up now."

Mac just scoffed, hiding his fear expertly. Asmara cast a glance in Abel's direction, and the younger man jabbed that baton into Mac's back, making him give a sharp grunt of pain and go rigid. At roughly the same time, there was a soft knock on the door, and without looking over at him, Asmara stood up and opened it. Mac heard a soft voice from the other side, but couldn't tell what was being said as he tried desperately to breathe. Whatever it was, though, he could tell that Asmara was not pleased. He gave a sharp wave in Abel's direction, and the man pulled the baton back, allowing Mac to gasp for air.

"It seems your friend Jack lied to me," Asmara reported. Mac could feel a small smile tug at his lips as he tried to stay upright, relief and pride in his expression. In response, Abel punched him across the face, his fist making contact with some nasty bruises on his cheekbone and temple. Mac saw stars, his brain struggling to keep up with all his head trauma.

Asmara looked him up and down for a few moments, clearly furious, then turned and said something to the man outside the room. As usual, it was in Portuguese, but this time, Mac was able to pick out a few words that were cognates in either English or Spanish: 'procure,' which, in context, he assumed meant something like 'find'; 'same first name'; and 'year.' After the brief conversation was over, Asmara closed the door and looked at his prisoner with an irritated expression, gears turning behind his eyes. Mac shifted uncomfortably, clenching and unclenching his fists as his chest heaved. Finally, his captor pulled his gun from behind his back, took aim, and fired. The bullet tore through Mac's left hip, and the young agent couldn't help but scream, his scratchy, raw voice straining with the effort as tears fell from his eyes. His left leg gave out completely under his weight, and his right leg couldn't support him, so he dangled from his wrists, which only made his shoulder more painful. It took several minutes for his cries to calm down. By that time, Asmara had walked over to him and was studying him critically as he pinched his eyes shut, his sore jaw clenching as he swallowed his screams. The older man reached out and grabbed a fistful of Mac's wet hair with his left hand, pulling his head up as he offered a pain-filled grunt. The young agent pried his eyes open, looking at his captor in terror and hatred.

"If I didn't need you, you'd be dead right now," Asmara growled angrily. "And I am officially in a bad mood, so I suggest you start cooperating with me. Who are you and who do you work for?"

Mac didn't answer, his chest heaving with short, shallow breaths. Asmara rolled his eyes and, with his right hand, roughly pressed into his new bullet wound, forcing an agonized cry from his throat. Asmara hardly seemed to notice, continuing to push on the wound with his thumb until Mac was barely conscious. Only then did he finally pull his hand away, wiping the blood on Mac's dirty, soaked, tattered shirt.

"I believe I asked you a question, Mac," he growled venomously. Mac refused to answer, and Asmara sighed irritably, releasing his grip on his captive's hair.

"Fine," he said finally, waving a hand carelessly. "But just remember, I gave you a chance to make it stop."

With this, he turned and walked back over his table. Behind him, Mac heard a rustling and crinkling sound that he couldn't quite place. It became clear, however, in the split second before a plastic bag came down over his head. He felt the smooth plastic press tight against his face, and just like that, he couldn't breathe. As he half stood, half hung there, gasping desperately for even the slightest breath of air, Asmara sat down in his chair with a heavy sigh, then picked up his phone and resumed his disinterested scrolling.

* * *

"Hey, Riles," Riley took her eyes off her computer screen for the first time in nearly seventy-two hours—she'd been working nonstop since they determined that Mac was indeed still alive—to see Jack standing behind her. Her face lit up, seeing him officially discharged from the hospital wing, and she got to her feet, pulling him into a hug. Jack gave a chuckle, ignoring how much her embrace hurt his three cracked ribs, hugging her back.

"Good to see you up and around," Riley said after a moment, clearing her throat as she pulled away. "Please don't ever scare me like that again."

"No promises, but I'll do my best," Jack grinned at her, but it didn't reach his eyes. He hadn't talked much to anyone since his debriefing with Matty and Cage, and had even texted Victoria's alias to her instead of delivering it himself, partially due to the fact that medical wanted to keep a close eye on him, but mostly because of the fact that he couldn't bring himself to face them. He broke. They knew it. It was taking everything in him just to look Riley in the eye. He didn't know how he could ever hope to gain their respect back. And on top of that, he was just about useless until they had some kind of lead. All that added up to a pretty good reason to just keep to himself. "You find anything?"

"Nothing yet on facial recognition for any of the guys we know are with Mac," Riley reported grimly. "Either they're just settled in somewhere, or they somehow caught on to how I found them the first time. I'm trying to put names to the faces and to compile a list of places Asmara might feel comfortable going with Mac. Unfortunately, there weren't any cameras on the side of the housing development Asmara and his other guys left from, so I don't know what car they were driving."

"What about Victoria?" Jack asked, trying not to sound disappointed.

"Her, I've had a little more luck with," the analyst sighed, going to sit back down in her chair. "So, I found Katherine Delgado when she came into the States twenty-plus years ago. She covered her tracks like a pro—never stayed on one place long, changed phone numbers often, never got any social media accounts, even changed her name eventually, I think—but I'm getting close to tracking her down."

As if to punctuate her words, her screen lit up with an alert, and Riley pulled it up.

"Wow, perfect timing," she muttered. "Yeah, Katherine Hill, formerly Katherine Delgado. Lives in Springdale, Arizona with her husband, Peter. I have her address right here."

"Awesome," Jack let out a sigh of relief, grateful to finally have something to do. "Send it to Matty, would ya?"

"I will," Riley promised. As he started to leave, she turned to him. "Jack."

The former Delta turned back to her expectantly, and Riley gave him a sympathetic look.

"No one blames you for what happened," she told him finally. "You know that, right?"

Jack just gave an appreciative smile, his eyes sad, and left the room, going in search of Matty. He found his boss in the war room, and gave a slight knock before coming inside.

"You get Riley's message?" he asked.

"Yes," Matty replied. "I want you to bring Victoria in. Even if you gave Asmara the wrong name, he's still looking for her; she's in danger. Bring Bozer with you."

Jack hesitated, his jaw twitching slightly, then dipped his head, "Yes, ma'am."

With this, he turned and headed out into the hall, on his way to grab Bozer and finally do something productive.

Hopefully, it would be one thing he didn't screw up.

* * *

Mac was sleeping restlessly on his cot, his sore, bloody wrists restrained to the frame. They brought him back into the room he first woke up in every night, which Mac liked for a few reasons, one being the fact that they allowed him to sleep lying down, and another being that it allowed him to keep track of the days. It had been three days since he woke up following his trip to the dentist, and every day passed was another day closer to getting out of there. That's what he had to tell himself every time he woke up; it was the only thing keeping him sane through the suffocation, electrocution, blood, and increasingly agonizing pain.

When Abel woke him again, jostling the cot to do so, he groaned, pinching his eyes shut, wanting more than anything to go back to sleep. Still, he forced himself to pry his eyes open, looking up at his tormentor to avoid a more insistent wake up; the day before, when Mac had refused to open his eyes, he was rewarded with a punch to his bullet wound. Abel smirked down at him, taking out his knife and bending towards him to slice the tie securing him to the cot. However, before he could complete his task, Asmara came into the room, saying something to Abel that Mac couldn't hope to decipher, his brain throbbing with every fleeting thought.

"It's your lucky day, Mac," Asmara said once he'd finished talking to Abel. His torturer straightened and took a step back from the captive, seeming disappointed, and Mac's brow furrowed in confusion. His captor came closer, stepping into his line of sight, and smiled at him. The sight sent chills down his spine. "My people finally found my dear Victoria, so you get to take a little break. Don't get too comfy; I'll be back soon. And, not that I have to say this, considering your current mobility, but don't get any ideas; I'm leaving my friend and several of my men here with you. You wouldn't make it out this door. Understand?"

Mac didn't answer, his eyes slowly falling closed, and Asmara's eyes flashed. He stepped forward and slapped his prisoner hard across the face, the sharp _crack_ followed by a weak, pain-filled yelp.

"I asked a question, Mac," Asmara snarled, leaning in close to the exhausted young agent. "I expect an answer. Do you understand?"

Mac, desperate to avoid more pain than he needed to endure, forced himself to nod, which was as good of a response as he could muster at that point. Asmara smirked, standing up again.

"I'll see you soon, Mac," he said icily. "We'll get you talking in no time."

* * *

When Jack and Bozer arrived at Victoria's house, it was just about six at night. As they neared the door, Jack turned to his companion and spoke for the first time since they left the Phoenix.

"Let me talk to her first," he implored, not quite able to look the younger man in the eye. "She knows me; she'll be less likely to freak out if it's just me."

"Alright," Bozer agreed, but he stopped Jack before he could make his way up to the front door. "But can we talk real quick?"

Jack hesitated, giving a slight nod.

"Look, I don't know exactly what happened with you and Mac and Asmara," the younger man sighed, and Jack shifted uncomfortably, waiting for Bozer to blame him, to voice all the thoughts running through his head. "But whatever happened wasn't your fault, Jack."

"What?" Jack was genuinely shocked to hear those words come out of his mouth. After all, thanks to him, his best friend since childhood was still missing, almost certainly being tortured if he wasn't dead yet.

"It wasn't your fault," Bozer repeated. "You gave in and gave Asmara a name, sure, but it was a fake name for one, and two...if I were in your position, having to listen to Mac screaming...I would've done the same thing. You didn't know how close we were. For all you knew, we were never going to find you, and you were trying to buy Mac time. Yeah, it got you separated from him, but you couldn't have known that, either. And no disrespect, but I'd really appreciate it if you could stow the pity party until after we find my best friend, okay?"

Jack blinked at him, unable to hide his surprise, and nodded.

"Good," Bozer approved. "Now, let's go get this bastard's ex somewhere safe."

The former Delta chuckled slightly, then got out of the car, walking with Bozer up to Victoria's front door. He took a deep breath before knocking firmly on the door and waiting. They heard movement inside, and then the front door opened wide. Jack couldn't help but be taken aback by the young man standing before them. He was just about twenty-one years old, and had the same eyes and strong jaw as Selam.

"Can I help you?" the young man asked cheerfully.

"Uh..." Jack shook his head and cleared his throat as Bozer glanced at him. "Yeah, is there a Katherine Delgado here?"

"Um..." The young man gave him a look, then turned and called into the house, "Mom! I think it's for you!"

"You think?" a familiar woman's voice questioned laughingly. They heard footsteps coming closer, and then Victoria came into view. Her black hair, long and flowing when Jack saw her last, had been cropped short into a pixie cut. The years had been kind to her; she was still beautiful. She was holding a dish towel and drying her hands, and she froze when she saw Jack, the smile vanishing from her face.

"Charlie," she said slowly, and Jack flinched, realizing she'd named the boy after his fallen friend. "Go get your sister and go upstairs."

"What?" Charlie seemed confused, but Victoria cut him off.

"Don't ask questions; just do as I say," she snapped. "Go watch a movie upstairs!"

Charlie recoiled, obviously not used to hearing such a harsh tone from her, glancing at Jack and Bozer before doing as he was told. They heard him talking quietly to someone in another room, and then they caught a glimpse of him and a younger girl heading up the stairs. Only when they heard a door on the second floor close did Victoria finally address her two visitors.

"What happened?" she demanded fearfully, her brown eyes shining.

"Hey, Victoria," Jack gave her a sad smile. "Mind if we talk inside?"

* * *

 **Finally got this done! I hope you all enjoyed! It is currently very early and I was up very late finishing this and trying to get it uploaded (I was having technical difficulties) so I apologize for not having quite as much banter to offer as usual. But, Merry belated Christmas to those people of the faith, Happy belated Hanukkah (Chanukah?) to those who celebrate, Happy Kwanzaa to those currently celebrating, Happy belated Yule if that was your holiday, (I'm running out of winter holidays) a happy (belated?) anything else one may celebrate, and a happy new year to all!**


	17. Pride and Prejudice

"So, let me get this straight," Victoria ran her trembling hands through her short hair, her eyes shining with restrained tears. "Not only is Selam still alive, but he escaped custody and is looking for me? And nobody thought to tell me?"

"Hey, now, to be fair, Victoria," Jack began.

"Katherine," the woman corrected harshly. "I haven't been Victoria in over twenty years."

"Right, sorry," Jack apologized sincerely. "But anyway, I couldn't have told you if I wanted to; I didn't know until about ten days ago. Seven of those days, I was not in a position to be any help to anyone, and the last three days were spent trying to find you so we _could_ tell you. You made yourself very hard to find."

"It was out of necessity," she pointed out. "Clearly, the military didn't have Selam as securely locked away as they claimed."

Jack was quiet. It was a fair point. After a few seconds of tense, slightly awkward silence, Victoria—Katherine—spoke again.

"He do that to you?" she asked finally, indicating the numerous bruises on his face. Jack nodded reluctantly.

"He got us coming back from an op," the older man explained. "Me and my partner. I got some good hits in, myself, but...my partner's still missing."

"I'm sorry," Katherine's voice was quiet. After another moment of silence, Jack stood up, walking around the living room, taking in the pictures.

"So, Charlie," he said after another second or two. "He's...?"

"Yes," Katherine confirmed. "He's the main reason I reached out about Selam; I couldn't let him be raised into that. I couldn't let him be as much of a prisoner as I was at that point. And the man I'd loved, the man I'd married...he was long gone at that point. Charlie saved my life. And your Charlie...he's the one who encouraged me to turn Selam in."

Jack nodded. That sounded like Charlie. He studied the pictures on the mantle, pictures of Katherine with her family, with a big group of school children—Riley had noted in the file she sent them that she was a schoolteacher, now, for third grade—with a dog, at the beach...

"Listen, Vic—" he caught himself, "Katherine...we need to get you somewhere safe, right now."

"Jack, I..." Katherine shook her head. "I'm sick of running and hiding from him. I'm sick of being afraid. I'm not doing it anymore."

"Okay, well, that's great in theory and all, Katherine, and maybe it worked before when he was in a detention camp and hiding out in a jungle, but he's back in the US, now, and he's looking for you," Jack struggled to keep his composure. "You have a family to think about, here. Believe me, I get the impulse, but you can't take this lightly. I saw up close and personal just how bad he wants to find you, and if and when he does...you know him. You don't think he'll use your family against you?"

"And what am I supposed to tell them?" Katherine argued. "How am I supposed to just tell my husband and my children to give up their lives and go into hiding for God knows how long?"

"I don't know," Jack shrugged. "But better they be upset and alive than unaware and dead."

Katherine let out a weary sigh, putting her face in her hands while Jack and Bozer exchanged glances. If she didn't come willingly, this was going to be difficult.

Jack looked out the window, surveying the street, when movement caught his eye. Immediately, forgetting the pain that shot through him with every movement, he lunged forward, grabbing Katherine by the shoulders and pulling her to the ground, face down, and covering her with his body as he shouted, "Get down!"

Bozer reacted quickly, but not quite quickly enough as bullets began flying through the living room, machine gun fire filling the air. The young agent got hit in the shoulder and yelped as he got down to the floor, falling onto his back and trying to cover both his head and his shoulder with his good arm. Upstairs, they heard both Charlie and his sister scream and call out for their mother.

"Boze, you okay?" Jack shouted to be heard over the gunfire. Bozer nodded, clearly in pain, and Jack signalled to him to go upstairs; they had to get to the kids. Taking a deep breath, Bozer shifted to his hands and knees, staying low as the bullets kept coming, and came up to the balls of his feet, rushing as fast as he could towards the stairs as he stayed as low to the ground as he could. He disappeared up the steps without further incident, and Jack turned his attention to Katherine.

"When I say go, you run for the stairs and don't look back," he said loudly, shifting off of her to allow her to get up into a more mobile position. Katherine nodded, shaking visibly with terror in her eyes. Jack waited for a lull in the gunfire before he hissed, "Go!"

Katherine did as she was told, crouch-sprinting for the stairs, running towards her children without ever once looking back. Jack followed her, and together, they found the Charlie and his sister hiding with Bozer in what appeared to be a spare room.

"Everybody okay?" Jack asked. Charlie and the younger girl—she looked to be about seventeen—nodded mutely as their mother hugged them close.

"What the fuck is going on?" the girl demanded in a loud, trembling whisper as tears fell from her eyes.

"Language, Amy," Katherine corrected her out of habit.

"This really doesn't feel like the time, Mom," the girl, Amy, shot back.

"Look, I know you guys are scared, but I need you to just listen and do what I say, alright? We'll get you all out of here." Jack's voice was quiet and calm even as his heart raced. Downstairs, they heard the front door slam open, and all three civilians jumped. Jack listened closely. Three sets of footsteps. He turned to Katherine.

"Is there another way out of the house from up here?"

Katherine started to shake her head, but Charlie spoke up, his voice quiet and trembling.

"There's a fire ladder in my room," he offered. "It's across the hall."

The back of the house. Perfect.

"Alright, that works," Jack nodded. Quietly, he pulled out his gun and turned to Bozer, who was trying to put pressure on his shoulder wound. "Boze, you lead the way. Call Matty, let her know what's going on, and see if you can get to the car. If not..."

"Improvise," Bozer concluded. "I got it."

"Good man," Jack approved with a slight smile. The former Delta looked out into the hallway, making sure it was empty before he put his attention back on the family they were trying to protect and opened his mouth to speak. He stopped when they heard someone downstairs.

"Victoria!" Jack and Katherine both felt their stomachs clench, and Jack's jaw twitched in anger. It was Selam. "Victoria, honey, I'm home!"

"Go," Jack hissed over his shoulder as he took up his position just inside the door of the room they were currently in, his gun aimed down the hall. Bozer led the way, following Charlie's silent directions to the room across the hall and one door to the left. The Hill family followed one at a time, first Charlie, then Amy, and finally Katherine.

"It's been a long time, my love," Selam continued. Jack could hear him walking around down below. "I see you're a teacher, now. I know you always wanted to do that."

Jack was all business, moving across the hall towards Charlie's room silently, all of his movements professional and practiced, his gun raised and his eyes never once leaving the top of the stairs. Meanwhile, Selam kept talking.

"You stole from me, darling," each pet name made Katherine visibly flinch. "I'm here to collect. Why don't you make it easy on us both and just come out?"

"Where's your husband?" Jack asked in a low whisper, looking over at Katherine for a second before looking back out into the hall. Behind him, Amy was cowering against her mother, Charlie was trying to dig the fire ladder out of his closet as silently as possible, and Bozer was trying to open the window while on the phone with Matty, explaining the situation.

"On a business trip," Katherine replied, her voice a whisper. "In Indiana; he won't be home until tomorrow."

"Good," Jack nodded, not looking at her. "Boze, what's the word?"

"Cops are on their way, so is the Phoenix team that came with us," his colleague reported. "Matty says we need to get out fast and that you are not to engage them."

"Only will if I have to," Jack promised. Technically speaking, he really hadn't been cleared for combat.

"That's a beautiful family you have," Selam called, though there was now rage in his voice. "Although it seems like you stole something else from me, didn't you, honey?"

"Charlie, how's that ladder coming?" Jack asked quietly, never moving.

"Got it," the young man reported. He rushed over to Bozer, who was just popping out the window screen, putting it down to the right of the window, and quickly went about attaching the ladder to the window, following the instructions on the bag. Jack heard footsteps on the stairs and braced himself. The second he saw one of Selam's guys, he fired, and the attacker fell dead, tumbling down the stairs. Amy let out a small scream and Charlie jumped, looking over at him before Bozer got him refocused on his task.

"Ah, Jack," Selam sounded less than thrilled to say the name. "I thought that was you I saw in the window. Guess I'll have to cancel those flowers I was going to send to your funeral."

"Aw, that's alright, Selam," Jack called down, his voice masking the sound of the ladder's release. "It's the thought that counts. I'll be sure to return the favor."

"This is pointless, Jack," Asmara sighed, pacing towards the stairs but not ascending them. "You have nowhere to run. Judging by the blood in the living room, one or more of you is hurt. Just give me what's mine, and I'll make sure you die painlessly."

"Nothing and no one in this house is yours, Selam," Jack kept him talking as Bozer went out the window first, climbing down the ladder and making sure the area was clear. Amy followed him, and Charlie and Katherine waited their turn. "Not anymore."

"That's where you're wrong, Jack," Selam laughed, but the sound wasn't cheerful. "My lovely wife stole something very important to me, and apparently then had the audacity to take my own son away, too. So to recap, that's _my_ wife, _my_ stolen property, and _my_ son."

"Mom what the hell is he talking about?" Charlie hissed, shaking visibly.

"Not now, Charlie," Katherine's eyes were sad. "I'll explain everything when we're safe; I promise."

Charlie hesitated, then nodded quickly and started down the ladder.

"Well, I hate to break this to you, but your wife stopped being your wife a long time ago," Jack replied without missing a beat, glancing back to make sure everyone was getting out alright. "And you kinda forfeited all parental rights when you beat her, wouldn't let her leave, and tried to kill her. And, you know, the whole terrorist thing didn't help your case either."

"You keep using that word," Asmara's frustration was evident. By that time, Charlie had reached the backyard, and Katherine was starting down the ladder. Jack moved backwards so he was standing beside the window, his eyes now on the doorway and his gun never faltering. "Terrorist. I don't think it means what you think it means."

"Pretty sure it does," Jack scoffed, glancing out the window at Katherine. She was about half way down the ladder. Bozer, Amy, and Charlie were all hiding behind a shed near the fence.

"Well, then, if I am one, then so are you," Asmara laughed humorlessly. "You Americans, you come in with your guns and missiles and tanks and armies and you tell the world you're bringing peace and all you do is murder."

 _Oh, here we go..._ Jack suppressed a sigh. When he glanced out the window, he saw that Katherine had made it down the ladder, so he started to follow, allowing Selam to keep talking. Finally on the ground, Jack rushed over to where Bozer and the family were hiding, making sure the area was clear.

"Everybody okay?" he asked when he got there. The family nodded and Bozer shrugged, which Jack took as good enough. "Okay. This isn't over yet. It's not gonna be long before he figures out we're gone, and I bet he's got people waiting out front. If we go to one of your neighbors, we could get them hurt, too."

"So what do we do?" Charlie asked, surprisingly steady. "Wait for the cops?"

Jack hesitated, listening. There were sirens in the distance, but they weren't close enough.

"Too long to wait," Jack shook his head.

"Then what's the plan, Jack?" Bozer pressed.

"Um..." Jack hesitated, trying to think of a plan and make sure the area was clear at the same time. _Think, Jack. What would Mac do?_

"Okay," he let out a breath, turning back to them. "I've got a plan, but I don't think you're gonna like it."

"Jack, it is bad enough when Mac says that," Bozer felt his stomach clench. "I really, really hate it when you say it."

"Relax, Boze; I've seen Mac do this a thousand times," Jack said dismissively. He started to say something to elaborate, but he was cut off by more machine gun fire. Immediately, he located its source—someone in Charlie's bedroom window—and took care of it, firing one shot for the kill. Unfortunately, this drew several others from the front of the house towards them.

"Shit," Jack cursed under his breath. "Okay, new plan: Run. You four run as fast as you can anywhere but here."

"Jack, if you think I'm leaving you, you're outta your damn mind," Bozer's voice was steady and left no room for argument.

"Boze, I will be fine," Jack snapped. "I need you to get these three somewhere safe. Now."

Bozer hesitated. In most circumstances, he would trust Jack to handle himself, but in his current state, against this many people—he'd counted at least four—he wasn't so sure. Finally, he nodded in agreement as bullets sprayed the shed behind which they hid.

"Go!" Jack snapped, waiting for a break in the fire and leaning out, firing back at their pursuers. Bozer motioned for the Hill family follow him and jumped the fence into their neighbor's yard, running as fast as he could manage while the three protectees followed him.

Jack, meanwhile, managed to take out two of the attackers—all of whom had found cover—before running out of ammo. He cursed to himself under his breath as he ducked back behind the shed. He heard the other two advancing on him, and waited, wound like a spring, until one of them came into view. He struck out at him, grabbing the assault rifle in his hands and knocking it away. He then kicked the younger man square in the chest, sending him to the ground, before turning and raising the gun to fire at the other man, who'd come around the other side of the shed to try and flank him. That man fell to the ground, dead, and Jack turned to take out the other one, but was instead met with a shovel that narrowly missed his head and knocked the rifle from his hands. Jack recovered from the shock quickly, blocking the next swing of the shovel. His assailant shouted something over his shoulder, likely calling for more backup, and Jack's stomach lurched, grabbing the shovel when he swung it again. The younger man shoved him back into the shed, pinning him there with the shovel across his chest. Jack grunted in pain, his injuries throbbing and burning, as he grit his teeth, glaring furiously at the younger man in front of him. He kicked out at his assailant's knee, and it buckled, allowing Jack to gain the upper hand again. He ripped the shovel from his hands, but when he tried to swing it at him, the younger man slashed at him with some nearby hedge clippers. The sharp tips sliced into his side, and the Phoenix agent cried out, dropping the shovel with one hand and allowing it to be knocked completely from his grasp.

"Son of a bitch," Jack growled, getting his hands up just in time to block another stab at him. As the two of them fought, three more of Asmara's men came from around the house, all barking orders. Jack paid them no mind; he was too busy trying to stop his attacker from driving the hedge clippers into his chest. The two had fallen to the ground, and after a well-placed punch to his traumatized ribs, Jack's assailant had managed to get on top with the clippers. For a moment, Jack thought he was done for, but then he heard tires squealing out front. More gunfire filled the air, and the younger man let it distract him, taking his eyes off Jack and lessening the pressure on the clippers just enough for Jack to reach out, grab a brick from the small stack beside the shed, and swing the weapon into the side of his head. The hit made him crumble immediately, and Jack shoved him off of him, getting to his feet.

"Jack!" the familiar voice made Jack's shoulders slump with relief. He turned to see Simmons jogging over to him, the rest of Asmara's men already down.

"You okay?" the tac team leader asked, taking in the fresh injuries his colleague had sustained.

"What's a few more bruises?" Jack shrugged dismissively, catching his breath. "Simmons, I have never been more happy to see you."

Simmons laughed slightly as Jack took out his phone to call Bozer, having already seen several other members of the tac team going into the house to clear out anyone else who might be lurking still.

"Bozer," Jack greeted his colleague when he answered. "Where you at? Simmons and I'll come to you."

"We made it about six houses down," Bozer replied, a little out of breath. "One street to the left."

"On our way," Jack promised, hanging up before turning to Simmons. "You find Selam?"

"What?" Simmons blinked in shock.

"Selam!" Jack repeated harshly. "Asmara! He was here, in the house!"

"I'm sorry, Sir," Simmons squared his shoulders, his brow still furrowed. "The house was empty when we got here."

Jack stared at him, disbelief in his eyes. _Son of a bitch got away again._ Which meant that he was free to keep hurting Mac.

 _If Mac wasn't dead already._

The former Delta shook his head. That was a terrible thought, one that he could not afford to think. And anyway, it was a problem for later. He had to focus on one thing at at time.

"Come on," he said shortly, trying not to let his anger and frustration get the better of him and starting for the front of the house. "We gotta pick up Bozer and Katherine's family. Bozer needs medical."

* * *

It was late by the time Selam made it back to the compound where he and his people were hiding out with their prisoner while they waited for his plans to come to fruition, only six of the fifteen he'd brought with him following. Half of his people were asleep in their bunks, and the other half were either preparing for bed or watching the end of a soccer game. He'd never understood soccer.

Those still awake greeted him and the others that joined them as he walked through the front room, and he responded in kind as he made his way through the dark concrete hall towards the room where he was keeping Mac, trying to keep his frustration and rage contained. When he opened the door, he found his second-in-command sitting at the small table, sipping coffee as he filled in a crossword puzzle from the New York Times. The man understood English quite well, but was uncomfortable speaking it, which was why Asmara continued to converse with him in his native language. That, and he was pretty sure that neither Mac nor Jack spoke Portuguese.

"Hello, Selam," Abel greeted him in Portuguese. "Want me to wake him?"

He gestured towards Mac, who was sound asleep on the cot, milking his break for all it was worth. There was sweat on his brow, his breathing was shallow, and every once in a while, he'd cough that ugly, wet cough, and Selam frowned.

"No," he replied at last. "Let him have the day off. We may need to have the medic take a look at him so he doesn't die before he outlives his usefulness."

Abel nodded in agreement, his mouth a hard line. He really didn't like their guest. "Did you get what you needed from your wife?"

"Well, unfortunately, not only is she still alive, but so is this one's friend," Selam sighed irritably. "Which, as you can imagine, is frustrating. But, I got what she stole from me."

He held up what looked like a thick book— _Pride and Prejudice_ , according to the cover—but when Selam opened it, it revealed a metal safe.

"For someone who managed to keep herself concealed for twenty years, she can be pretty predictable," he sighed. "This was the book she was reading when we met."

"Women are sentimental," Abel shrugged, filling in a word in his puzzle.

"Apparently," Selam muttered. After a moment, he cleared his throat. "You should get some rest; I'll have one of the guys come in and watch him. He won't be much trouble anyway, and besides, he's dead asleep."

Abel gave a slight laugh, nodding in agreement as he stood up. As he headed out into the hall, he gave his boss a smile.

"Goodnight, Selam."

"Goodnight."

Selam lingered in the doorway, watching Mac as he slept, hatred on his face, but also curiosity and a bit of respect; however frustrating he was, it was hard not to admire not only his resilience but also his creativity. He pondered the mystery that was his captive for a moment or two longer before calling one of the guards from the front room in to take the overnight shift. After casting one more glance at Mac, he left his prisoner to his sleep.

Except for the fact that Mac was not asleep. In fact, he was more awake than he'd been in a while. He'd listened to his captors talk, still unable to understand what they were saying, and heard his guard come in for the night. It was almost time. Resting lengthwise between the heels of his hands was a small, thin nail, which had been lying discarded on the floor a short distance from his cot. He'd had his eye on it for three days. Obtaining it hadn't been easy; he'd had to manage to keep himself awake with his eyes closed at some point during the day, which in itself was hard for him, given his exhaustion, and hold that position until he heard Abel leave to go to the bathroom or get some food or water or something. Then, he'd opened his eyes, located the nail, used his closest leg—which, unfortunately for him, was his left—to reach out and grab it with his toes before pulling it back and, in some kind of desperation-fueled feat, bringing his foot up to his hands and get the nail hidden between them, and then resettled on the cot like he'd never moved, all in just a few minutes. And he'd done it all without one single whimper. And then, he'd had to make sure that the nail didn't fall out when he grabbed another much-needed nap. All that work couldn't be for nothing.

So, as soon as he was certain his guard was asleep, he was making a break for it. And if he didn't make it, well...at least he could say he didn't go down without a fight.

* * *

 **What's up, guys? Super long one for you, I know. Longest one yet. But I hope I kept it interesting and that you enjoyed! Mac's about to get himself in a lot of trouble, so that should be fun. We are definitely nearing the end, kind of, maybe...okay well I at least came up with an ending and I can't really see how it's going to take much longer to get there...So brace yourselves. This is gonna be rough.**


	18. Turn Right

When Mac was certain—absolutely certain—that his guard was asleep, not satisfied until he heard the man snoring softly in his chair, he finally opened his eyes. His eyes had long since adjusted to the gloom, so he wasted no time grabbing the nail and inserting it into the locking mechanism of the cable tie around his wrists. Once free, he pulled his arms down from over his head, gritting his teeth to suppress a groan when his shoulder wound shifted. Taking as deep a breath as he could manage, he sat up, his left arm crossing over his abused ribcage as he did so, carefully turning to put his bare feet on the cold concrete floor. Taking another deep breath, he forced himself to stand, letting out the breath as slow as possible so he didn't make any noise. Carefully, quietly, he limped towards the door, holding his breath half the time to keep from making any sounds of pain, shaking with the effort to suppress his coughing. The nine steps to the door felt like nine miles, but eventually, he made it there and grabbed the handle, pausing for a moment to steady himself.

 _Okay, Mac, you can do this,_ he said to himself, trying to ignore how unsteady both he and his vision were whenever he moved. But he couldn't exactly back out, now, so before he could change his mind, he slowly, silently, turned the doorknob and pulled the door open just enough for him to slip outside. He kept the knob turned, quietly closing the door behind him before releasing it, then turned and paused. To his left, he knew, he would eventually come to the room they'd torture him in. They put a bag over his head every time, but he'd been quick to learn the route. It was nine steps from his bed to the door, then left seventeen steps, right seven steps and down four stairs, then straight for eight steps, and finally right thirteen steps. Yesterday, he'd also heard a door open and seen light through his hood when he did, so he was pretty sure the front door was to his left, as well. But, he could also hear a TV in that direction, and he couldn't tell if someone was still awake watching it. On top of that, when he'd heard the door open, it had creaked and groaned loudly, and if he tried to open it now, it would definitely wake people up. So, front door was out, and so was going to the left in general.

 _Right it is_ , he thought to himself, turning right and limping down the hall. He soon reached a dead end, and suppressed a sigh, going back and opening the last door he'd passed. It wasn't a way out, but Mac soon realized he was okay with that. Some things were more important than escape. This, he was pretty sure, was one of them.

In the room were two tables, one long one against the the left hand wall, and one shorter one in the middle of the room. The contents of each were equally concerning. The one on the left hand wall was covered in bomb-making materials. It was dark, but he'd recognize bricks of RDX and blasting caps with his eyes closed. There were other, more sophisticated materials, too, but he couldn't get a good look at them in the gloom.

"Shit," Mac breathed. There were enough explosives to level a city block. His stomach churned at the thought; whatever Selam was planning, it wasn't gonna be good. The EOD specialist turned his attention away from the explosives, looking at the middle table. At first glance, it didn't look too bad—it was covered in large sheets of paper, the writing on which Mac couldn't hope to make out in the gloom—and in fact, he felt a rush of relief when he saw the laptop sitting off to the side of it. When he ran his finger across the mousepad, flinching back from the sudden light, he found it locked, but the phone plugged into it to charge was not, and Mac thanked every god he could think of, snatching it up. Once it was in his hand, he paused. He honestly wanted to text instead of call, partially because his voice was incredibly painful, partially because he was still incredibly paranoid about making any noise. But if he texted and got caught, first of all, they'd know everything he said _and_ have the number he texted. Second of all, convincing Phoenix that he was who he said he was via text could take a while, and on top of that, if he did manage to accomplish that and he got caught...he was giving Selam an in with his people.

 _Better to call_ , he decided. He pulled up the phone's dial pad and called Matty, praying she'd still be awake—according to the phone, it was about two in the morning. The phone rang four times, each one causing Mac's hope to die just a little more, before she finally answered.

"Who is this?" his boss demanded, sounding wide awake. Mac turned down the call volume out of paranoia before he spoke.

"Matty," Mac's voice was barely a whisper as he leaned against the table for support, relief making his knees weak. "Thank God...it's Mac. Please tell me Riley's still awake, too."

"I'm here, Mac," Riley's voice was both exhausted and energized. "Stay on the line. That phone you're using is scrambled like hell; it's gonna take some time to track it down."

"What can you tell us, Blondie?" Matty's voice was all business, but he could tell how happy she was to hear from him.

"Not much about where I am," Mac whispered regretfully. "I wasn't exactly conscious while they were moving me. Oh, but they did take me to a doctor to fix my teeth. Asmara's guy kind of—"

"We know," Matty cut him off. "Jack filled us in. Do you know what doctor?"

For a moment, Mac didn't respond, weak with relief. "Jack's alive?"

"Yes," Matty confirmed, trying not to sound impatient. "Dalton is alive."

"Of course I'm alive," Mac clamped a hand over his mouth, tears of joy in his eyes, when he heard his partner's voice. For a moment—just a moment—he'd started to fear that Asmara really did have Jack killed. "Who's asking?"

"We've got Mac on the line," Riley replied.

"Mac!" Jack's voice became tense with desperation. "Thank God. You okay, brother?"

"Yeah," Mac assured him, his tight voice still a whisper. "Yeah, Jack, I'm okay. Just...please hurry up and get me out of here, okay?"

"We will, brother; just hang tight," Jack promised, and was about to say more when Matty cut him off.

"Focus, MacGyver," Director Webber snapped. "Do you know what doctor they took you to?"

"Tomlinson," Mac replied shakily, glancing at the closed door in fear, his gut clenching, expecting Asmara to burst through the door at any moment. "He was a dentist or an oral surgeon. Matty, there's something else...I'm in a room right now, just... _full_ of explosives. RDX, I think; it's too dark to get a good look. None of it's live, but Asmara's planning something big."

"Any idea what that might be?" Matty asked, ever professional.

"No, I—" MacGyver broke off, his eyes narrowing at the papers on the table. "Wait a second..."

He ran his finger over the laptop's mousepad again, lighting up the screen, and turned the device so that the light cast across the table. A curse slipped off his bruised, swollen lips.

"Matty, I've got blueprints," he reported gravely, leaning closer to the large sheets of paper, trying to figure out what he was looking at. There were at least six or seven sheets all stacked on top of each other, but he focused on the top one.

"What of?" Jack questioned, the tension in his body reflected in his voice.

"I don't..." Mac blinked hard, trying to focus his blurry vision. He hadn't been able to see clearly or focus on words in days, and it hadn't really frustrated him until that moment. "I'm not sure; I can't...Reading is a bit difficult right now. Give me a minute."

His colleagues obediently got silent, allowing him to focus on the words in the lower right hand corner of the plans. The letters were out of focus and almost appeared to move on the page, and trying to read them sent shooting pain through his skull, but he pushed through, desperate to figure out what Selam was planning. When it finally clicked in his head, his blue eyes grew wide.

"Holy shit," he breathed. "Matty, it's the—"

He broke off with a sharp cry when a foot came into contact with his still-healing knife wound, and he dropped the phone as his leg gave out. He tried to catch himself, but he missed the table, and when his traumatized left wrist made contact with the concrete beneath him, he felt pain shoot straight up his arm, and he shouted again, rolling onto his back and groaning in agony. Through the phone, he could hear Jack calling out to him as he cradled his left wrist to his chest, and he looked up with terror-filled eyes to see Selam standing over him, anger in his eyes. Mac grit his teeth, swallowing hard. For a moment, he thought about running, but he knew he couldn't possibly make it, and if he tried, he'd likely only get himself killed.

Selam picked up the phone Mac dropped, examining it for a moment before speaking.

"Hello, again, Jack," the terrorist's voice reflected his irritation. Before any of the Phoenix agents on the other end of the line could say another word, he continued, "Goodbye, Jack."

With no more fanfare, he hung up the phone, switching it off and putting it in his pocket before turning to look at his captive.

"Y'know, Mac," he sighed, his voice terrifyingly calm. "For such a smart man...that was a really stupid move."

* * *

"No, no, no..." Riley whispered when she heard Selam's voice over the phone, typing furiously. When he hung up, her eyes grew wide.

"No! Dammit!" she cried in frustration, slamming her hand against the arm of the chair she sat in.

"You didn't get it, did you?" Matty sounded disappointed, but not in her, and she shook her head.

"I didn't have enough time," the hacker's voice shook, clearly upset, trying not to let the fear show in her eyes. Both Matty and Jack saw it anyway. "I'm so sorry, Jack..."

Jack wanted to tell her it was okay, that it wasn't her fault, but he was so furious and downright scared that he didn't trust himself to speak. Instead, he sat down in one of the empty chairs in the war room and put his head in his hands.

"It's okay, Riley," Matty soothed. "What can you find on that doctor Mac told us about?"

"Um..." Riley took a minute, shaking her head to compose herself, and swallowed the lump in her throat before starting to type again.

"There are forty-three 'Doctor Tomlinsons' in the US," she reported. "Thirteen are either dentists or oral surgeons..."

She trailed off, her eyebrows lifting in surprise.

"What?" Matty prompted, causing Jack to lift his head and look over at her.

"Only one of them was found murdered four days ago," she reported. "Doctor Garrett Tomlinson, oral surgeon, found dead in his office in Reno, Nevada. There are three traffic cams and one ATM cam around that building; I'll check the footage from that night."

After a few more keystrokes, she pulled up the video on the big screen, each feed in a different portion, and all three Phoenix members turned to watch it, Jack getting to his feet. After a moment, he pointed to the feed in the upper right corner, which was the ATM cam and had a view of the alley that ran alongside the doctor's office.

"There," he said quickly, and Riley enlarged the image, allowing them to see none other than Selam and the man Jack recognized as Abel get out of the front seat of an SUV. They went around and dragged Mac's limp body out of the back seat and brought him in the side door, a sight that made Jack's stomach clench.

"Alright, now that I know what car they're driving," Riley's voice still shook, and she cleared her throat before continuing, "I can follow them after they leave."

She did just that, clocking the car at every traffic cam, ATM cam, and wireless-enabled security cam it passed. Eventually, it stopped outside a warehouse thirty minutes outside the city.

"Got 'em," she reported.

"Grab Cage and the tac team," Matty ordered Jack, who was already starting for the door. "Plane leaves in five minutes."

* * *

 **Hello again, all! This one's a bit shorter, but A. I wanted to get it out before New Year's Eve, and B. things are going to start happening very quickly and I wanna ease y'all into it a little bit. Mac is...wow, he is about to be in a whole _world_ of trouble. BUT Jack and the gang are going to find him very soon, so that's good. Kinda. You'll see. Hope you enjoyed! Happy new year!**


	19. Blueprints

Mac was bound hand and foot, bleeding from new injuries sustained following his failed escape attempt—but, thankfully for him, the beating, while painful, had been relatively short, probably due to time constraints—watching Asmara direct his people. He noticed that there were definitely more of them than there had been in Brazil. There were at least forty guards, he was pretty sure, loading up cargo vans and SUVs. Best he could tell, they were going to be leaving in groups. He, Abel, and Asmara were going to be leaving first with the explosives and about half the troops, and the remainder would pack up the rest of their things and follow.

The young agent was in a lot of pain—way more than what had become usual. He was pretty sure that trying to break his fall when Asmara knocked him down was the last straw for his stressed left wrist; it was swelling quickly, which just made the new cable tie dig deeper into his bleeding flesh. His knife wound had been re-agitated and was bleeding horribly again, now longer than it had been, and the burned flesh was oozing. There were more cuts on his abdomen, shallow but painful, and his head was spinning. He was almost seeing the world through a kaleidoscope. His stomach was also churning, but for once, that was not due to his beating, nor was it due to the fact that he'd barely eaten a thing in over ten days. This time, it was because of what he saw in that room. If Jack didn't find this place and figure out what Asmara was planning soon, thousands of people were going to die.

Finally, forty-five minutes after he'd been caught on the phone, Abel came over to where they'd dumped him beside the building, grabbing him roughly and pulling him slightly away from the wall, smirking when he gave a cry of pain. He sliced his ankles free and yanked him to his feet. Mac yelped, feeling the cable tie tugging at his bleeding, swollen wrists, barely able to stay upright as Abel took him over to the car that he'd already seen Asmara get into. It was a panel van with some kind of logo on the side that his swirling vision could not decipher. The driver and cargo compartments were separated by a metal partition. One of Asmara's guys was behind the wheel, and Asmara was in a rear-facing seat right behind him. The rest of the van was empty, and Abel pushed him inside, quickly checking to make sure he didn't have anything on him he could use to escape again, before attaching the zip tie around his wrists to a small metal loop attached to the floor of the van. He then got inside and closed the door behind him, pounding on the top of the vehicle to tell their driver they were ready. In moments, they were moving again.

"You know, Mac," Asmara sighed, studying him. "I was a lot nicer with you than I had to be. I didn't drug you. I didn't hurt you unless you gave me no choice. I let you sleep. You should have been more grateful."

"You're going to kill thousands of innocent people," Mac's voice was cracked and weak, his vocal cords about ready to give out.

"Yes," Asmara nodded with a smirk. "And now, because you refused to cooperate, you're going to be one of them."

Mac didn't answer, gritting his teeth and whimpering as they drove over a pothole. Asmara chuckled.

"So, what's it like working for the Phoenix Foundation, Mac?"

Mac froze, keeping his expression blank as he stared at his captor. Asmara shrugged.

"See, think tanks...those aren't exactly a dime a dozen," he explained. "Even rarer if you look for ones with enough pull and prestige to send workers to Brazil. So, I started looking up all the ones in Los Angeles, because I know that's where Jack lives. The Phoenix Foundation is an extremely well-designed front, but...I've seen your playbook. Hell, I helped write parts of your playbook. I know a government front when I see one. You know, I almost, _almost_ started to believe you, that you were just a civilian, but that phone call confirmed it: you're an agent. Any civilian would have called 911, not some random person named Matty."

"I walked into a room full of explosives," Mac reminded him, still trying to salvage the situation. "I called who I thought would be best equipped to handle that. My company has had government contracts before; they'd know who to call."

"Give it up, Mac," Asmara scoffed. "It's just sad, now. We know. And now that we know, I have a few more questions. And, if you answer them, not only will I not be forced to hurt you, but I also won't add you to the body count of phase one of my plan."

"Phase one?" Mac paled visibly, which was a feat, considering how pale he already was.

"Yes," Asmara grinned at him. "Phase one is warmup, with the added benefit of creating a false sense of security in the aftermath; phase two is my more petty revenge; and phase three, well...phase three is when the fun really starts."

Mac shifted painfully, chills shooting down his spine, and gave a soft yelp when they drove over another, larger pothole. The wounded agent suddenly became certain that their driver was aiming for said potholes, probably at his captor's request. Asmara laughed at him, leaning forward in his seat.

"I know you're tired, Mac," the older man's voice was oddly soothing, pity in his eyes. "You're trying so hard to be strong and brave and you've done brilliantly, but be honest with yourself; you can't keep this up and you know it."

Mac glared at him, his anger hiding the fear he felt, knowing that, despite his best efforts, he was fading fast. He couldn't keep going. Not like this. His body was weak and broken, but so was his mind; his multiple concussions had him confused at all times, and with his latest blunder, he was starting to lose hope that this would ever be over. He wasn't exactly sure what that meant for him—whether his body or mind would give out first—but he did know that the knowledge that he was nearing his own limitations was terrifying.

"I'm not going to ask you to tell me anything," his captor continued. "Not yet. I know you're not ready. But it's a long trip to where we're going, and I think you and I both know that, one way or another, by the time we get there, you're going to be finished. I hope for your sake that you make the right decision."

* * *

Jack moved through the compound silently, his gun up and at the ready, sticking to Simmons like glue. Per Matty's orders, he was not running point on this operation; his altercation with Selam in Arizona had already landed him in the hot seat, and the only reason he'd been allowed to go on this mission at all was because Matty knew she couldn't stop him. So, he'd been relegated to backup, and that was fine with him if it got him Mac back. He, Simmons, and the two other tac team members that were a part of their group could hear gunfire in other parts of the large, industrial space, but they'd yet to encounter any resistance. They'd cleared the apparent bunk house that was inside the front door and to the right, and returned to the main room, going down the hallway straight ahead of the entrance. Simmons was at the front and cleared the first room on their right, Jack standing guard while the two behind them—Ramirez and then Cook—broke off from the line and mimicked them on the left. Simmons felt his stomach lurch when he eventually came to the room that he could only assume Mac had been in for at least part of his stay, if the blood on the floor and cot was any indication. But, that was not his purpose at the moment, so once he was sure that the room was empty, he went back out into the hall, and they continued on. It was an uneventful search until they started nearing the end. Then, when Simmons and Ramirez opened the next-to-last doors in the hall and went inside to clear them, the last door on the left flew open, and a man came out shooting. Jack heard Cook yelp and saw him go down, and didn't hesitate before firing back. He was much more accurate than their attacker, and the shooter fell dead outside the door just as Simmons and Ramirez came back out.

"I've got Cook," Jack volunteered, taking up a defensive position over their fallen friend, who had at least three wounds that Jack could readily see. He waited until Simmons and Ramirez had refocused on the rest of the hall before bending down and helping Cook to his feet, gritting his teeth as he tried to ignore his own injuries, and let the man lean on him as they made their way out of the building.

"Stay with me, buddy; c'mon," Jack urged. The rest of the building had gotten relatively quiet as the raid started to die down, but Cook was breathing very hard, and the farther they walked, the more he had to lean on Jack. It didn't take long for the former Delta to realize that something was very wrong. Cook couldn't even make it outside; he fell from Jack's grasp in the middle of the front room, and Jack felt his stomach drop.

"Kyser!" he called for their medic as loud as he could. The man—thirty-one-year-old Mark Kyser, a former army medic—arrived in no time from a different part of the building, his gun across his back as he dropped down beside their bleeding colleague. Cook's dark eyes were half open, blood was pooling underneath him, and he was gasping for air. Kyser frowned, thinking the same thing Jack was: how could there be so much blood? It wasn't as if Cook wasn't wearing body armor.

"Shit," the medic muttered as it dawned on him, quickly pulling off the vest their colleague was wearing, revealing the holes in the material. "Armor piercing rounds."

Jack tried to keep his composure. After all, for all the rounds Selam's man fired, Cook was only hit through the vest twice. The other injuries were just grazes.

"How bad, Doc?" Cook questioned breathlessly, his voice quiet as Ramirez came over to them, having cleared the last of the rooms and left Simmons to secure what they'd found. Kyser quickly directed both him and Jack to put pressure on the two wounds—one in his upper chest near his shoulder and one in his gut—and turned to his patient.

"You'll be fine, Cook," he assured him confidently, though Jack could see his nervousness. "Just stay awake for me. I'll be right back."

The medic gave a nod to Jack and Ramirez before rushing out of the building, returning a few moments later with a med bag, starting to go about preparing Cook for the medevac he called for; their friend wasn't going to make it back to the Phoenix.

"Alright, Evan, this might hurt a little," Kyser warned. "Just stay awake for me."

Cook's eyes were closed, but he nodded, trying desperately to stay conscious. Jack's mind scrambled, trying to think of something to keep him talking.

"Cook, you realize that this is the third shirt you've ruined for me," he scolded jokingly. "I'm gonna have to start billing you."

Evan laughed slightly. "Sorry, Dalton," he apologized. "Maybe you should be the target next time."

"Nah," Jack dismissed the idea as Kyser gave him an approving nod for keeping his patient conscious. "You're too good at it. Hey, you were saying something this morning about ballet; please tell me I get to see you in a tutu in the near future."

Again, the man laughed. "I hate to disappoint you, but my daughter is the ballerina, not me."

"Oh, right," Jack nodded. "Aliya. How old is she, now?"

This time, Cook didn't answer, his breathing even more labored, and Jack repeated his question.

"Cook," his voice was louder and more insistent this time. The younger man's eyes fluttered, but didn't open, and that was good enough for Jack. "Tell me about Aliya. How old is she?"

"She's, ah...she's six..." where Jack's voice was getting louder, Cook's was getting softer, and both Jack and Ramirez looked at Kyser, hoping for reassurance but finding none. The field medic looked focused but almost scared as he went about trying to control the bleeding. He didn't understand why it wouldn't stop; he'd clamped the artery in his shoulder, but blood continued to gush, and there were no major blood vessels in the apparent path of the other bullet, either, but the wound in the man's gut was bleeding worse than his shoulder. The medic took a breath, trying to compose himself, fending off the panic and frustration expertly.

"Ah, good, Cook..." Jack did his best to ignore the knot in his stomach. "Six years old, huh? What grade is that?"

"First," Cook replied quietly. The four of them seemed to exist in their own little world as the rest of the Phoenix operatives moved about, dragging those they'd arrested with them.

"First grade," Jack smiled slightly, "that's a good year. Right before school starts becoming real work. Tell me about Aliya, Evan; what does she like to do?"

"She...she, ah..." Cook's voice started fading, and Jack felt his stomach lurch.

"C'mon, now, Cook; stay with me," the former Delta's voice was firm and commanding, as if he were issuing an order rather than a plea. "Tell me about Aliya."

"Ali...Ali-ya..." the younger man's head rolled, and Jack gave a start, his eyes going wide.

"Cook!" he shouted, trying to get a reaction, but he wouldn't stir. Kyser quickly reached up and pressed two fingers into the man's carotid, saying a little prayer, but he felt no pulse. He looked up at Jack and Ramirez with a sad expression and shook his head. Ramirez let his head hang, fighting back tears, as Jack stood up, his hands behind his head as he swallowed the lump in his throat. He heard Kyser cancelling the medevac behind him, and he let his eyes close.

"Jack," Cage's voice made him open his eyes, letting his arms drop to his sides as he turned to her. She looked at Cook's body, her lips parting in horror, before she blinked and shook her head, forcing herself to stay on task.

"We cleared the building," she reported as Simmons came to join them, his normally light personality now somber as he looked over at his fallen friend, forcing himself to keep his composure for the rest of his team. "Four more of Asmara's men captured, three dead. No sign of Asmara or Mac, but...We, ah...we found the room where they were torturing him."

"Let me see it," Jack's request wasn't really a request, and, knowing that Matty would be upset—they were supposed to be trying to distance Jack from the investigation as much as possible while he recovered, not that he was giving them much opportunity to keep him in the dark—she dipped her head and started to lead him away, but Simmons stopped them.

"With all due respect, ma'am," the tac team leader sighed. "I think you'll want to see what Ramirez and I found, first."

Jack raised his eyebrows, looking at Cage, who motioned for Simmons to led the way. He guided them past the body of the man who'd shot and killed Cook and into the last room on the left, and immediately, Jack could tell that this was the room Mac called them from. The blood on the floor beside the middle table—as well as the bloody handprints on its surface—were a dead giveaway. Both tables were empty, but there were seven large, rolled-up pieces of paper leaning against the wall by the door. They almost looked like posters. It took Jack only a second to realize what they were looking at, and he called Matty up on coms.

"Jack," she greeted him. "What's your status?"

"We lost Cook," he began, his voice heavy as he picked up the nearest rolled up paper, taking off the rubber band and moving towards the center table. "Mac and Asmara are gone. So are the explosives. But, I think we found the blueprints Mac was trying to tell us about."

"What are they of?" Matty asked, keeping them on track. As upset as she was about Cook's loss and not finding Mac, she had to remember that there was a terrorist on the loose, and according to her agent, he had one hell of a bomb on his hands.

"Well, let's see," Jack sighed, rolling out the blueprint on the table. "This one is of...the Walt Disney Concert Hall."

"Why would Asmara target the Philharmonic?" Riley piped up, looking at what she could find on her laptop. "Their events usually pull in a full house, but I can't see why..."

"He might not be," Cage chimed in, unrolling another blueprint on top of Jack's. "This one's for UCLA's student activities center."

"They're all different," Simmons added, looking down each tube as he started pulling off rubber bands and handing the papers to the two agents.

"This one's for the Staples Center," Jack reported as Cage rolled out another one on top of his and he took another from Simmons.

"LA Convention Center."

"The USS _Iowa_ Museum."

"Los Angeles City Hall."

"And Union Station," Jack's voice was grim. "He's baiting us."

"These could all be targets," Simmons chewed his lip uncomfortably.

"Or none of them are," Cage offered. "Or only some of them are. He's setting us up to waste our time."

"We have to treat this as if they're all credible threats," Matty sighed regretfully.

"Well, if we have to prioritize, I'd put the concert hall at the bottom of the list," Riley shook her head. "In the next week, it only has one event, and again...not getting the allure of the Philharmonic to a terrorist. As for the others...UCLA is having homecoming this weekend. Staples Center has a Clippers game in two days. The convention center...couple things: naturalization ceremony tomorrow afternoon, and a volleyball tournament in which a Congressman's daughter is a player the day after. The USS _Iowa_ Museum is hosting an event tomorrow honoring the life of Captain Andrew Duncan, who was the last living man who served on the USS _Iowa_ during World War II until his death last week and also Charlie Duncan's father. City Hall and Union Station are both just kind of obvious."

"Matty, I'm telling you, he's not going to go for obvious," Jack broke in.

"Okay, I'll bite," Matty allowed. "What are your top two targets, Jack?"

"The convention center naturalization ceremony and the USS _Iowa_ Museum," he replied readily.

"And which one would you say is most likely?"

Here, Jack paused, weighing the two options, before finally speaking. "The USS _Iowa_. It would cause massive casualties, potentially irreparable damage to a symbol of American strength, and c'mon, Matty; he'd never miss a chance to spit on Charlie's grave just to spite me."

Matty was quiet, considering his words. "Alright. Get back to the Phoenix. I'll send word to the other agencies about this; they'll take everything but the convention center and the museum. Cage, you'll take a team to the _Iowa_ , and Jack, you'll take the convention center."

"Matty—!" Jack started, about to argue that he should be taking the museum, but Matty stopped him.

"Enough, Jack!" she snapped. "You're lucky I'm letting you go at all. You haven't been cleared for the field. I should be benching you for so many reasons, but because it's Mac, I'll let you stay. That's as good as you're going to get."

Jack's jaw twitched, but he nodded anyway, knowing she was right, "Yes, ma'am."

"Good," Matty approved, slightly surprised that he'd agreed. "Now get back here. I need you all rested for tomorrow."

* * *

The next afternoon, Jack sat in position outside the convention center, watching hundreds, even thousands of people file inside, many with the hope of becoming American citizens, others just wanting to show their support. He was one of ten Phoenix agents stationed around the area, and the tac team and bomb squad was not far away if they ran into trouble. They'd been in position for hours, and Jack was starting to get restless.

"Cage, you got anything on your end?" he asked into his coms, his eyes scanning the area.

"Nothing," the other agent reported. "And the ceremonies are about to start for both of us, so I feel like we should have seen them by now."

"I've got nothing on facial recognition," Riley offered sadly. "Maybe we were wrong; maybe it was one of the other targets."

"Or none of them," Cage added.

"No," Jack refused. "My Spidey Sense is rarely wrong."

"Asmara has been playing mind games since the start," Cage argued. "There's no reason to think he'd stop now."

Jack opened his mouth to retort, but stopped himself, his eyes wide, instead muttering, "Except seeing _him_ walking out of the convention center..."

"Who?" Riley, Cage, and Matty all said at once.

"Riley, west service door," he said quickly, getting to his feet and walking towards his target. "That's the guy who tortured Mac."

"Are you sure?" Matty asked.

"Positive," Jack confirmed. Riley ran facial recognition on the man in question, and it only strengthened his words when it matched the footage of Asmara and Abel taking Mac into Tomlinson's office.

"Cage, get your team over to the convention center," Matty ordered. "Tac be ready to move."

Jack heard Cage and Simmons sound off in his ear, but he was too focused on Abel, who was wearing some kind of uniform, tracking him through the sea of pedestrians. Eventually, the man spotted him, and tried to run, but Jack was faster, all his pent-up rage unleashing as he tackled Abel roughly to the ground, pinning him there and punching him across the face just out of anger, restraining himself from doing anything else as the other nearby agents came to his aid.

"Where is he?" the former Delta demanded, fighting to keep his voice down so he didn't draw any more attention from those walking around outside the center. "What the hell did you do with him? Huh?"

Abel just smirked up at him, his teeth bloodied. Jack wanted to shoot him, to kill him right then and there for everything he'd done, but Mac was his priority, so he allowed one of the other agents to handcuff Abel while he took the ID badge off his uniform, stood up and ran for the service entrance, ignoring Matty's voice telling him to stop and wait for backup, as well as the voices of his fellow agents. He used the ID badge to open the door and rushed inside. The blueprints they'd found were for the basement level of the convention center, so he quickly made his way down the nearest stairs, his gun drawn.

Once downstairs, he found himself in a sort of storage area. There were support columns everywhere, but he barely noticed. All his attention was on the thin blond figure with his back to him, his hands behind the small of his back as he knelt facing one of the columns.

"Mac!" Jack would recognize his partner anywhere. He quickly started rushing towards the bleeding agent. "Matty, I got Mac; send medical down here, now!"

"Jack, no," Mac's voice was weak, hoarse, and trembling, and he didn't turn to look at him. He didn't move a muscle, continuing to sit up overtop his knees, his back pin straight even as blood made a small pool under his left knee. Jack slowed down, starting to approach him more cautiously, carefully making his way around to face his partner. As he did so, he noticed something odd. Mac was wearing the same bloodstained, slightly singed pants he'd been wearing in Brazil, but he was wearing what looked like a brand new long-sleeved t-shirt. It, too, was stained with blood from the agent's injuries, but it certainly wasn't the shirt he was captured in.

"Mac, what's going on?" he asked slowly, tensing up again, looking around warily in the dim light.

"Jack, don't," the agent gasped, still not moving an inch. "You can't touch me."

"Why not?" as Jack asked the question, he finally managed to walk around to stand in front of the younger man. Mac's face was even more bruised than he'd last seen it, his lip was bleeding again, and all the angles of his face seemed much more pronounced than usual, even in the dim light. The young agent had tears in his fearful blue eyes as he looked up at him. What scared Jack most, though, was the red laser dot on his chest.

"Look around you," Mac ordered. Jack took out his flashlight and clicked it on, looking around the room. He first noticed the massive bomb against the column Mac was facing, from which the laser dot emanated. He then took note of the charges on a couple other columns, linked to the larger one.

"Shit," Jack breathed. "Mac, we gotta get out of here."

"No," Mac refused, his voice shaking. "Jack...this bomb has three potential triggers, and...and two of them are me."

* * *

 **Whew! That certainly escalated quickly. I hope you enjoyed this very long chapter. Shit is really going to hit the fan from here on out. I'm wishing you all a very happy 2018!**


	20. Lean On Me

"What?" Jack felt his blood run cold as a tear escaped Mac's eye. The former Delta slowly crouched down so that he was at eye level with his partner, taking his coms out of his ear so he didn't have to hear everyone else's voice; he needed to just focus on Mac. "Hey, now, Mac, stay with me; what are you talking about?"

"There, ah..." Mac took as deep a breath as he dared, trying to compose himself. "There's a timer around the other side of the column."

Jack turned his flashlight to check, and sure enough, there it was, its red digital numbers telling them they had forty-three minutes left, which, if Jack remembered the program correctly, would put them right about when the future citizens above them were starting to take their oath. There would be thousands of people there, and based on the size of the bomb, none of them would survive the blast, let alone when the floor inevitably caved in. He swallowed hard, then turned back to Mac, keeping his poker face up.

"Okay," he nodded. "What else?"

"This laser," Mac told him, his weak voice tightening. "It's a proximity sensor—a motion detector. If I move more than an inch, it'll set off the bomb."

"Alright," Jack didn't sound too concerned, expertly masking how much his heart was pounding. "And?"

"If you interrupt the circuit, it'll set the bomb off," the EOD specialist explained. "Meaning if you cut any of the wires connecting any of the charges, and...if I move my hands. There are two wires going through my sleeves, and they go through two holes in the back and meet behind me under my shirt. It won't take much for me to disconnect them if I move my hands, and if they disconnect...I'm part of the circuit, Jack."

"Okay," Jack nodded, his voice soothing. "Okay, it's alright; we'll get through this. You're gonna be just fine, brother. I'm not gonna let you go kaboom, not after we went through all this to find you. Bomb squad is on the way; you just gotta stay with me. Can you do that?"

"Jack, I'm so tired..." Mac couldn't stop his tears, his happiness at seeing his partner alive undercut by the fact that, now that he was there, Mac knew he wasn't going to leave no matter what, and he wasn't sure that he could maintain his position much longer. His legs were straining, and he couldn't even shift his weight to his good leg, so his left leg was screaming. His shoulder was burning and his arms trembled as they tried to keep their position behind his back. It was taking all his focus to keep from coughing. He was absolutely exhausted, pure terror the only thing keeping him upright.

"Hey, I know, man; believe me," Jack said sincerely. "I know you're tired. I can tell you're tired; you look like shit."

Mac gave a strangled, tearful laugh, sniffling and swallowing hard.

"But it's almost over, okay?" his partner continued. "Just hold on a little longer. I'm right here, okay? I'm not going anywhere. We're gonna figure this out together. Are you with me?"

Mac hesitated, still unsure if he was physically able to keep going, before he finally gave a stiff nod. Jack's face broke out into a smile.

"Alright," he approved. "Now, bomb squad's gotta know, is it safe to move around in here as long as no one touches you?"

Mac hesitated, looking around as much as he could.

"I don't see any other sensors," he concluded finally. "And I didn't see any when they dragged me into position; I think we're good on that front."

"Good," Jack nodded as Simmons came down the stairs.

"Hey, Mac," he greeted his colleague, his relief at having found him alive evident as he came around into Mac's line of sight.

"Simmons," Mac forced a slight smile. "It's good to see you."

"Good to see you, too," the older man said sincerely. "Mind if I borrow your partner for a second?"

Mac shook his head slightly, and Jack carefully got to his feet, hiding the pain in his movements behind a stony expression. The two moved out of their tortured friend's line of sight, putting some distance between them so that there would be less of a chance of being overheard, wanting to keep Mac focused on staying perfectly still.

"What's the word?" Jack asked finally, his voice quiet.

"Well, Matty says you're going to be in a lot of trouble for taking out your coms," the tac team member said with a sigh.

"I would expect nothing less," Jack nodded, completely unconcerned. "And?"

"Tac is clearing the building," he reported, getting back to business. "No sign of Asmara or any of his people, but Riley's still looking. Cage should be here in just a few minutes. Bomb squad is suiting up."

"Good," Jack approved. "Ahm...I'd actually like to get medical down here, if we can. Something seems off with Mac, and we can't have him moving, so anything they can do to help him out is gonna be vital. And lights; see if you can find lights for this place."

"Will do," Simmons promised before heading for the exit. Jack turned and walked back over to Mac, stepping into his line of sight.

"What was that about?" his trembling partner asked.

"Oh, nothing," Jack shrugged. "Tac's clearing the building, bomb squad's on its way, and Simmons is gonna try and find us some—"

As if on cue, lights flickered on above them, illuminating the space and allowing Jack to get his first clear look at Mac. His stomach lurched at the sight. The younger agent seemed impossibly thin. He was sweating, trembling, and crying silently—probably from the evident pain. His leg was still bleeding, the blood pool slowly growing under his knee. The front of his shirt was just covered in blood, too, and it was still wet, so it was possible that he was still bleeding from those wounds, as well. It was too much blood, and Jack knew it. The kid was running on pure, primal fear, and as soon as that fear petered out, he wasn't going to be able to keep his position. The timer on the bomb was not their only clock to beat.

"It looks worse than it is," Mac lied, seeing the look of horror and guilt on Jack's face. Jack didn't buy it for a moment, but he forced a half-smile anyway. "Are you okay?"

"Me?" Jack raised his eyebrows, then shrugged, turning around and grabbing a folding chair from a rolling rack behind him, opening it and sitting down in front of his partner. "I'm fine. Couple bruised ribs, concussion; not a big deal."

Mac didn't buy his assurances either, but he nodded slightly anyway. "Good. What about Asmara? Did you find him?"

"No," Jack shook his head gravely. "But we found Abel outside, brought him into custody."

"There was something he said..." Mac muttered, his eyes closing as he tried to think. "Something Asmara said, I..."

"Hey, now, Mac, I appreciate you trying to help," Jack's strong, soothing voice made Mac open his eyes. "But you just focus on you, right now, okay? We've got Abel; Asmara can wait."

Mac didn't seem so sure about that. Something in his gut had him terrified about something Asmara had said or done, but he couldn't place what it was; his head was killing him, and everything since...well, honestly, since they woke up in that basement in Nevada, was foggy at best, and had only gotten worse as time went on. Still, he forced himself to nod.

"Alright," Jack smiled. "Good. Now, talk to me; what's going on with you?"

"Well, to be honest, not having the best day," Mac laughed slightly. As he spoke, the man from the bomb squad, all suited up, came down the steps, followed by Kyser.

"Afternoon, everyone," the green-suited man greeted them as he came into view, Kyser hanging back. "Name's Isaac Blake; good to meet ya. Gonna take a wild guess and say that you," he pointed at Mac, "must be MacGyver."

"That's me," Mac confirmed shakily.

"Good," Isaac smiled reassuringly, somehow managing to make Mac feel a little bit at ease. "In that case, I'm gonna take a look at this, see if I can't get you home in time for dinner."

"Sounds good to me," the wounded agent gave a broken laugh.

"Alright," Isaac chuckled, the sound warm and comforting, taking a knee beside the bomb and putting down his tools. "Then I'm gonna need you to do me a favor, and hold still."

"I'll do my best," Mac promised. Isaac looked over at his shadow.

"You can come over," he assured him. "Just don't touch my new friend, here."

"I won't," Mac heard Kyser promise just moments before stepping into his line of sight. "Hey, Mac."

"Kyser," the former captive gave a half-smile. "I'd say you're a sight for sore eyes, but...there are, like, three of you, and none of you are in focus."

"That's good to know," Kyser made a note of that on the tablet in his hand.

"Not a whole lot you can do for me, you know," Mac reminded him, his voice dull.

"True," Kyster agreed. "But, I can see how you're holding up, so we can know how to treat you once we get you out of here, and—"

"So you can see how long I can last," Mac realized, his expression grim as he swallowed hard. "Trying to figure out which timer you're trying to beat, huh?"

Kyser pressed his lips together and gave a small nod.

"Well, I'll save you some time," Mac sighed. "How much time is on the timer?"

"Thirty-two and a half minutes," Jack replied gravely.

"Yeah, I'm definitely the timer you should be worried about," Mac looked down, trying to hide how hard he was breathing, how agonizing every second was as he knelt on the rough concrete.

"Well, hopefully, we won't have to worry for long," Isaac's voice was infectiously optimistic, making all three men around him smile. "Now, Mac—they called you that; mind if I do?"

"Not at all," the young agent gave a miniscule shrug.

"Cool," Isaac nodded. "Now, is there anything you can tell me about this device that I might not readily see?"

"They, ah...they had me blindfolded while they got it set up," Mac admitted, trying to stop the memories that started to rise up at the admission. "But, based on what I know about who built it, I'd expect at least two power sources. He hates me."

"I'm not sure why," Jack shrugged, assuming correctly that he was talking about Abel. "If he were gonna hate anyone I'd expect it to be me."

"No, he hates you, too," Mac assured him.

"By the looks of that bomb, I think he hates everybody," Kyser pointed out.

"I'd agree with that," Isaac nodded absently, his focus squarely on the device in front of him.

"Alright, Mac, do me a favor and follow this for me," Kyser held up a stylus and started moving it side to side, up and down, and diagonally. Mac's eyes followed it, but the movements were slow and jerky.

"Good," the medic hid his concern well. "Jack, can I talk to you for a second?"

"You good, Mac?" Jack looked over at his partner, not willing to leave without his okay. Mac gave a nod, and Jack stood up, walking off with Kyser.

"What's the word, Doc?" the former Delta asked.

"I don't think I have to tell you that he's in really bad shape," the medic sighed. "I can't tell how bad without touching him, but it's not good. He's lost too much blood. From what I can tell looking at him, he's got a broken wrist, possibly a broken collarbone, more than likely a fractured jaw, multiple concussions, and that doesn't even begin to cover the rib damage we both know he sustained. He's got some kind of wound in his hip, too, I think; can't tell through all the blood, but I think there's a hole there. He's been living on adrenaline and fear for days, now; it's not an endless resource. His body can't just keep churning out more of it. Sooner or later, he's going to use the last of it, and he's going to start feeling every injury he's got. He's gonna start feeling how much blood he's lost, how exhausted he is—how tired he feels now is nothing compared to how tired he's gonna be. He's not going to be able to hold still."

"Okay..." Jack rubbed his jaw thoughtfully; it was just as bad as he'd imagined. He'd already seen how weak Mac got the last time he was pushed to his limits, and if he reached that point now, they were all going to die. "Is, ah...is there anything you can give him? Anything to keep his energy up?"

"I mean, I could give him epinephrine," Kyser gave a helpless shrug, "but first of all, that would be an extremely temporary fix. Second of all, it'll just make him lose blood faster. Third of all, if I flood his system with it just as he starts fading, the jolt could make him panic and move. I'd say it's our last resort."

"Okay," Jack agreed. "Okay, so...what do we do in the meantime? How do we help him?"

"Just keep him engaged," Kyser offered as he ran his fingers through his hair. "Keep his mind off his pain as he starts coming down. That's really all we can do."

"Well, that, I think I can handle," Jack gave a slight smile. "Thanks, Doc. You, ah...you might want to get clear of the building."

"Nah," Kyser shook his head. "When we get him out of this, he's gonna need my help right away; I may as well stick around. He's waited long enough. I'll hang back so you guys can talk, but I'm staying here."

Jack's smile grew, laughing a little as he clapped a hand on his friend's shoulder. "You're a good man, Kyser."

Kyser just gave him a smile, and Jack started to go back to Mac, but at that moment, Cage came rushing down the steps, a laptop in her hands.

"Hey, Cage," he greeted her. Hearing Jack say her name, Mac looked over as much as he could without turning his head, not wanting to risk turning his body any.

"Hey," she gave her colleague a smile. "C'mon."

With this, she made her way into Mac's line of sight. Upon seeing her, the wounded agent let out a shuddering breath.

"Cage," his voice trembled. "I thought you were..."

"Oh yeah," Jack gave a nervous laugh as he joined them. "I forgot. Cage is alive; she took some shots to the vest, is all."

"Are you okay?" Mac couldn't hide his concern.

"I'm fine," Cage assured him. "Just a few bruises and a bump on the head from the fall."

"Good," Mac's signature half-smile was a bit more like a grimace than he'd intended. "Then, don't take this the wrong way, Cage, but...I'm really glad you broke your hand."

At this, both Cage and Jack laughed, and Cage shook her head.

"Some people want to see you," she told him, opening the laptop and turning it on. Back at the Phoenix, Riley connected immediately, and soon, the screen was split in half, one side showing Matty sitting at her desk, and one side showing her and Bozer. Bozer was still being held by medical for his shoulder, the hit proving to be a bit more dangerous than they'd originally believed. Once the picture was up, Cage turned the device so Mac could see it. Upon seeing his friends, more tears fell involuntarily from Mac's eyes; he'd started to believe that he'd never see them again. For a moment, he forgot all about how much pain he was in, the joy he felt at the sight of them almost numbing him.

"Mac!" Riley smiled a huge, bittersweet smile when she saw him, and beside her, Bozer forced himself to hide his horror at seeing his best friend's condition and smile, too.

"Hey, man," he greeted the long-missing agent. "How're you holding up?"

"It's good to see you, Blondie," Matty chimed in.

"Hey," Mac's broken smile was gut-wrenching, and Jack slowly sat back down, glancing at Isaac as the man continued to examine the explosive. "Hey, guys...Boze, what happened to you?"

"Perks of the job," Bozer shrugged. "We found Victoria. So did Asmara. It's really not that bad; it's just that apparently, the bullet grazed an artery, and when they went in to remove the bullet, all hell broke loose. I'm gonna be just fine; they're letting me go tomorrow."

"Did you get Victoria?" Mac asked, satisfied that his friend was alright.

"Yep," Riley nodded. "Her and her family. Everything's good, here, Mac; all that's left is for you to come home safe."

"Well, believe me, guys; I'm working on it," Mac assured them. "God, it is so good to see you..."

"Sweet Christmas," Isaac muttered, leaning back from the bomb, making all four others in the basement look over at him.

"Um," Cage turned the laptop so she was on camera. "Riley, Bozer, we're going to call you back and let Mac and Isaac focus, okay? Matty will have us on coms."

Before Riley or Bozer could protest, Cage hung up the call, closing the laptop and turning to Isaac just as Jack started talking, putting his coms back in his ear.

"What is it?" the former Delta asked gravely.

"Well, I think I figured out which wires to cut," Isaac sighed. "Unfortunately, whoever made this bomb is an asshole."

"That is true," Jack nodded. "Care to elaborate?"

"First of all, there are two power sources," he explained, "which was expected. However, there's a mercury trigger on top of the housing of the second power source."

"Oh my God," Mac let out a shaky breath, his shoulders sagging slightly in defeat. He could feel his fight-or-flight waning, feel his injuries getting more intense, feel his body starting to tremble as his muscles started to near their limit.

"Okay, dumb it down a little for my friend, here," Jack jabbed a thumb in Kyser's direction. "Can you diffuse it or not?"

"I can," Isaac nodded. "I'm just not so sure I can do it in..." he leaned over to look at the timer, "twenty-one minutes and seventeen seconds."

"Dalton, Cage, and Kyser, I want you outside, now," Matty ordered through their coms.

"Go," Jack's voice was firm as he spoke to his two colleagues, not once shifting from his chair.

"You, too, Dalton," Matty repeated firmly.

"No," Jack refused. "I'm not going."

"Jack, please," Mac's trembling voice made Jack's stomach lurch, and he shook his head.

"No!" he repeated adamantly. "I am _not_ leaving you again, Mac, and Matty, so help me God, I will shoot anyone who tries to make me. As long as Mac is staying, so am I."

"Jack, I don't..." the wounded agent tried and failed to swallow the lump in his throat. "Please, I can't let you die because of me..."

"Really not your decision, brother," Jack shook his head, taking out his coms again when Matty kept yelling at him. "You go kaboom, I go kaboom, remember?"

Mac's eyes closed as the younger man tried to hold back his sobs, knowing he couldn't make Jack leave. The former Delta turned to Cage and Kyser.

"Both of you, get out of here," he ordered. "Now."

"Jack," Cage began, but Jack cut her off.

"Go!"

Cage's jaw twitched, but eventually, she dipped her head and made her way towards the exit. Kyser lingered for a moment, his eyes sad, wishing there was something, _anything_ he could do, before he gave the older man a stiff salute, which Jack returned.

"Steady as she goes, Blake," the medic remarked before finally following Cage outside.

"Jack, you should go with them," Mac repeated, his eyes now only half open and his words slurring. "So should you, Isaac; I'm...I'm fading fast. I can feel it..."

"I'm gonna go ahead and pretend I didn't just hear you suggest I leave you behind again," Jack declared, getting up.

"Dammit, Jack, I can't stay upright like this," Mac growled weakly. Jack hesitated for a minute, then nodded.

"Okay," he sighed, walking around behind his partner. Mac blinked, knowing it could not have been that easy, and sure enough, instead of hearing Jack leave, he heard him stop right behind him, and then felt him kneel down so they were back to back, one of Jack's legs on the outside of each of his. "If you can't stay upright, then lean back; I've got you, brother."

Mac scoffed, his heart clenching as he shook his head, but he carefully, tentatively leaned back against his partner. It was hardly any movement, but it did allow Jack to support his upper body instead of Mac's back muscles trying to do the job, and it did slightly lessen the pressure he was putting on his knees. The tortured agent nearly collapsed against him, his right hand clinging to his left as tight as he could manage to keep them both in position.

"Easy, Mac," Jack soothed, his stomach churning now that he couldn't see what kind of progress Isaac was making. Now with a solid support behind him, Mac finally unleashed the cough he'd been suppressing, still ever-aware of how much he was moving, and Jack forced himself to hold still. When the coughing finally subsided, Mac was left gasping, his eyes falling shut as he let his head fall back against Jack's. The seconds ticked by like hours, but Jack held his position, aware that he was getting blood on himself from Mac's wounds and not caring when the thought made his stomach churn. He wasn't going to let his partner suffer alone. Not again.

"Okay," Isaac reported, prompting Mac to open his eyes and lift his head. "I've got both housings open. Just a few wires, and we'll all go have a beer."

"Tell you what, man, you get us out of here, and the first round's on Mac," Jack volunteered, making both of the other men laugh.

"Sounds like a plan," Isaac agreed cheerfully. Jack held his breath and Mac squeezed his eyes shut as Isaac glanced at the timer. Ten minutes. Plenty of time. The green suited man had managed to maneuver the two housings so both were side by side in front of him, and he repeated the wire sequence in his head one more time, just to make sure he had it down: Red and black left, green and black right; yellow left, blue right; then blue and green left, red and purple right, and don't shake the housing on the right at all or risk setting off the mercury trigger. Easy peasy.

Now confident, he singled out the first two wires in each housing—red and black poised between his left wire cutters, green and black in the right—and cut them simultaneously. As soon as he did, the device started beeping, and Jack drew a sharp breath.

"That sounds bad," he muttered, his muscles tensing up as Mac tried and failed to suppress a terrified whimper. Isaac ignored them, glancing at the timer. Four and a half minutes, now. Great. Cutting the wires sped up the clock.

Refocusing on his task, Isaac isolated the next wire in each housing—yellow in the left and blue in the right—and cut them at the same time. Louder, faster beeping. More time off the clock; he was down to a minute and fifteen. That was alright; he just had two—well, technically four—more wires to cut, and they had to be cut together. Remaining as calm as ever, Isaac isolated the last two wires in each—blue and green in the left and purple and...no, not yellow, definitely red, in the right—took a breath, and cut them. All at once, the beeping stopped, the clock turned off, and the laser disappeared from the middle of Mac's chest.

"Alright," the bomb tech sighed, taking off his helmet. "We're clear."

"I can move?" Mac asked tentatively, almost not able to believe it.

"Yes," Isaac confirmed with a confident smile.

"You're sure?" Jack pressed, just as nervous as his partner.

"Positive," the man assured them both.

Mac let out a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, his legs giving out under him and his arms coming around in front of him, breaking the connection easily. Jack turned and caught him quickly, holding him as gently as he could as Mac clung to him, sobbing both from relief, fear, and absolute agony.

"It's okay, buddy; you're safe," Jack nodded gratefully at Isaac, and the man smiled back at him, heading for the exit to deliver the news and get Kyser back down there. "I've got you, brother, just hold on; we'll get you home in no time. You're okay; just breathe..."

Mac hardly dared believe his words, some part of him convinced that he'd open his eyes and find himself back with Asmara, trapped again in his own private hell. If this was a dream, he'd rather die than wake up. Before Kyser and the rest of the medical team could make it back down, he'd finally succumbed to the blackness that had been threatening to take him over ever since he arrived, going limp in Jack's arms, and for a moment, the former Delta felt panic shoot through him. He quickly checked for his partner's pulse, only letting himself breathe when he found it—weaker and faster than he would have liked it, but still there. It took everything in him to let the younger man go and step back when the medical team arrived, some part of him terrified that if he let go, Mac would disappear again.

As he stood there, watching them prepare his partner for transport back to Phoenix medical, he had to remind himself not to let his relief consume him. They had Mac back, sure, but he wasn't out of the woods yet. They'd caught Abel, but Asmara was still at large. They still weren't sure what that asshat was planning. This was far from over.

* * *

 **Whoo! Free at last! Now fingers crossed Mac remembers the important bits when he wakes up. Hope you all enjoyed!**


	21. Just a Dream

When Mac started to come to again, he kept his eyes shut, wanting desperately to go back to the dream he was all but certain his rescue was. He could feel something soft beneath him, and his arms were down at his sides, but that meant nothing; he'd woken up in similar positions before. He wasn't safe. He couldn't be. The last thing he was sure he remembered, Asmara had found out about the Phoenix Foundation and had firmly concluded that he was, in fact, an agent. What were the odds that Jack had just so happened to find him right after that? Or that Asmara would just leave him—hooked up to a bomb or not—when they both knew he wasn't going to last much longer? No. He'd just dreamt his rescue. It wasn't as if it was the first time he'd done so, nor was it the first time it had felt so real. On the contrary; he'd had similar dreams every night since he and Jack got separated. He'd dreamt finding Jack again, dreamt seeing Riley, Bozer, and Cage. It wasn't real. As much as he wanted it to be true, his mind was convinced that it was wishful thinking.

But, then, where was he? Listening, he could hear a heart monitor beeping steadily with his pulse. So he was getting some kind of medical treatment. That made sense; as much as he mentally couldn't last much longer, he was scraping the bottom of the barrel physically, too. This wouldn't be the first time Asmara got him help just so he could keep hurting him.

He tried not to let the tension in his body be too obvious when heard someone enter the room, coming much closer to him than he would have liked and stopping beside whatever it was he was laying on. He felt them touch his right arm. Whatever they were doing, they were giving him his chance. Acting on pure instinct and desperation, knowing that if he didn't get away now, he likely never would, he sprang into action, grabbing the hand in one lightning motion and twisting it. The person it was attached to—a young woman wearing dark blue scrubs, her brown hair pulled back in a bun—yelped, trying to free herself from the hold. Seeing her instead of one of Asmara's men gave the traumatized agent pause, but he didn't recognize her, either, so he stood his ground.

"Where am I?" the agent demanded with a growl, barely able to focus on the young woman's face and not recognizing the room he was in. "And how the hell do I get out of here?"

"Agent MacGyver, you're in the Phoenix Foundation medical center," the young woman gasped, not moving from the lock position but much more shocked than hurt.

"Like hell I am," Mac scoffed, keeping his voice low so his captors wouldn't hear him. Now that Asmara knew who he worked for, he couldn't trust those words anymore. The fact that someone told him he was at the Phoenix meant nothing anymore. "Now tell me how to get out of here."

"Mac!" the dazed young agent hardly had time to process the voice before a hand grabbed his wrist—much more gently than he would have expected—and forced him to let go of the young woman's hand. Immediately, instinctively, Mac started to fight, trying to get away, to get out. He punched and kicked and clawed at his perceived attacker, desperation fueling each blow, terror making his heart race.

"Mac, stop it!" the voice was firm but soothing as the newcomer grabbed both of Mac's forearms, easily able to gain the upper hand and block his weakened hits. Some part of the wounded agent recognized the voice immediately, but he didn't stop fighting, the recognition not quite registering. "Stop! It's Jack! Calm down! Mac, it's me!"

It took a few seconds for Jack's words to find their purchase, but when they did, Mac stopped fighting, breathing hard as he tried to focus on his friend's face. When he spoke, his voice trembled, afraid that this, too, was all either a dream or a hallucination.

"Jack?"

"Yeah, buddy," Jack's face was full of concern as, behind him, the young nurse waited patiently, rubbing her sore wrist and taking a few deep breaths to calm herself. "It's me. You're at the Phoenix. It's over; you're safe."

"The convention center...It wasn't a dream...?" Mac felt tears well up in his eyes, hope starting to fill him up.

"No," Jack shook his head, slowly releasing his grip on Mac's arms. "All of that was real. You're home. You're safe. Take a breath, brother; you're okay."

Mac let out a shuddering breath, slowly relaxing in his bed, no longer fighting the sedatives in his system. He turned his head, coughing that deep, wet cough again before turning back to Jack and the nurse. He studied his partner for a moment, blinking his vision as clear as it could get, and shifted his gaze to the nurse.

"I'm sorry," he said sincerely, guilt on his face. "I'm so sorry; I didn't mean to..."

"It's okay," the nurse smiled, her expression kind and understanding. "It honestly didn't even hurt; you just startled me, is all. Besides, you didn't recognize me."

"No," Mac agreed. "I didn't...And I'm sorry about that, too."

"No, no, don't be," the nurse laughed slightly, stepping closer to him. "We haven't met before; there's no reason you should recognize me. I'm Taryn; I started two weeks ago."

"Mac," the young agent introduced himself. "It's nice to meet you. And again...I'm so sorry..."

"Don't worry about it," Taryn gave a warm smile. "Is there anything I can get you?"

Mac shook his head, barely able to keep his eyes open now that his mind recognized that he was finally somewhere safe.

"Okay," the young woman sighed quietly. "I'll let the doctor know you're awake."

With this, Taryn left the room, leaving Mac alone with his partner. Jack grabbed a chair from against the wall and pulled it closer to the side of his friend's hospital bed, slowly lowering himself into it.

"How're you feeling?" the former Delta asked, watching Mac's heart rate slowly return to normal levels.

"Tired," Mac replied honestly, but he wasn't all that interested in talking about himself. "What happened after I passed out?"

"Kyser and the medical team came down for you," Jack explained. "We got you back here, and they started checking—"

"I meant what happened besides what happened to me," Mac clarified, wanting more than anything to hear that Asmara had been caught, a boulder still settled in his stomach as he tried to clear up his memory of his time alone with the terrorist. There was something he had to remember, something so incredibly important...

"Cage started interrogating Abel," the older man told him slowly, not wanting to stress him out too much. "So far she hasn't got anywhere, but it's barely been a day, so I'm not worried about it. Victoria—who goes by Katherine, now—and her family are getting ready to go into hiding until we find Asmara. Bozer got released by medical, which, by the way, that makes Riley and Matty the only ones who are uninjured from our team; we have taken a serious beating. Speaking of Matty, she'll probably be joining us soon with Cage; they're going to want to talk to you. They won't debrief you until tomorrow at least, but they need to know a couple things right now."

"I know," Mac nodded, his expression grim. A few moments later, a three man parade came into his room, Doctor Emerson leading the charge, Matty following him, and Cage taking up the rear. All three smiled upon seeing their colleague awake.

"Good morning, Agent MacGyver," Emerson greeted him. "How're you feeling?"

"Ah...alive, which is cool," Mac offered a weak smile, and his friends laughed. "So, what's the verdict on me?"

"You are going to be here for a while," Emerson told him bluntly. "Multiple concussions, six cracked ribs...I don't think I have to tell you that your left wrist is broken, but your right wrist also has a hairline fracture; we'll put casts on after those gashes heal a bit. Your jaw was fractured, too, but amazingly, your skull is intact, so that's good. We took care of your shoulder and removed the bullet from your hip, stitched up your leg...You've got an infection, and you're right on the edge of pneumonia, so we've got you on some pretty strong antibiotics in addition to the morphine. We have an oral surgeon coming in to take a look at your teeth, see if they can be saved. But in spite of all that, you, Mr. MacGyver, are looking at a full recovery. You'll have a long road of rehab, but you're going to be just fine."

"Good to hear," Mac said gratefully before he turned his head to cough again, his shoulders heaving with the effort.

"And your coughs sound productive, so that's good," Emerson noted, stepping towards him. Jack stood up and stepped out of the way so he could have better access to his patient. "I'll make this quick, I promise; follow my finger."

Just like they had been when Kyser gave him the same test, Mac's eye movements were slow and jerky, and Emerson made a note on his chart before taking out a penlight and shining it in each of Mac's eyes, recording their reactivity to the light. As he went about giving his patient a cursory check-up, Matty took the opportunity to talk to him, only pausing when Emerson listened to Mac's lungs and heart.

"I'll save the formal debrief until you're feeling a little better," she told him. "But are you up for talking to us informally right now?"

"Don't have a whole lot of choice, do I?" Mac scoffed. "Unless you already found Asmara."

"Not yet," Matty sighed. "That's what we're hoping you can help us with."

"I mean...I'll try, but...my memory isn't great," Mac admitted helplessly. "And I didn't overhear anything; they spoke Portuguese the whole time."

"That's fine," his boss assured him. "Anything you can give us is going to help."

The wounded agent hesitated as Emerson finished up his examination before nodding in agreement, trying to prepare himself to face his memories and knowing that no preparation was going to be enough.

"How's your vision?" Emerson's voice jolted him from his thoughts.

"Ah...better," Mac reported. "Yeah, now there's only two of you, one of you is mostly in focus, and neither one of you is floating, so that's cool."

Jack gave a little snort of laughter, and both Emerson and Mac gave him a small smile before turning back to each other.

"Good. Well, then, I'll check back in with you soon," the doctor promised. "Feel free to press the call button if you need anything."

"Thanks, Doc," Mac gave a weak smile. Emerson returned the grin, then left the room.

"Jack," Matty turned to the former Delta, who was standing a few feet from Mac's side, his arms folded tightly over his chest. "Could you give us a minute?"

It wasn't a request, and Jack knew it, but still, he shifted his eyes back to Mac, still not willing to leave unless he was okay with it. The exhausted younger man gave a nod and a smile, grateful for and almost amused by how protective his partner was being.

"I'll be right outside," he promised, waiting for Mac's acknowledgement before leaving, closing the door behind him.

"Alright," Matty let out a sigh, turning to face her long-missing agent and grabbing a seat as Cage mimicked her. "Walk us through it. Let's start where Dalton left off; in Nevada."

Mac nodded, his jaw twitching slightly, taking a moment to gather his thoughts before he swallowed hard and began.

"I didn't know what was going on," he admitted slowly, not looking at either one of them. "My ears were ringing, my head was pounding, and...I realized that they took Jack upstairs, but it didn't register why that happened. I didn't notice that I was moving. I was in and out of consciousness. I came to for a few minutes with Tomlinson, but even then, I didn't really know what was happening. I didn't fully wake up until I was in that building I called you from. Asmara...he said that he'd killed..." his voice wavered for a moment, and he cleared his throat before he continued, "He said that I piqued his interest, and he wanted to know who I was and who I worked for."

"Did you tell him?"

Mac's eyes darted to his boss at her question, and he immediately regretted the quick movement, letting his eyelids fall for a moment as he tried to settle his stomach and soothe his aching head. After a few moments, his eyes opened again, and he looked at Matty with a range of emotions on his face. Matty gave a shrug.

"It's nothing against you, Mac," she said gently. She glanced at the corner of the room in front of him and to his left, and when he looked, he could just make out a camera near the ceiling. His jaw twitched as he looked back at his boss, but Matty's expression was full of sympathy and understanding. "But I do know what happened when you woke up here. Taryn used your full last name and the name of the building, and you were not fazed. Only reason that wouldn't be enough for you to realize that you were safe is if Asmara knew both of those things."

Mac hesitated a moment before he shifted his gaze away from her, shaking his head and reaching up with his right hand to pinch the bridge of his nose.

"I didn't tell him anything," he stated firmly at last. "I stuck to my cover story, altered to fit what Asmara already knew. I told him I was a civilian, that I worked at a think tank—I didn't say which one—and that Jack accompanied me when my work took me somewhere that someone higher up deemed unsafe. But by the time we left that building, he knew I worked for Phoenix, knew I was an agent, even as I denied it."

"How?" Matty's voice was still anything but accusing, but Mac's stomach still clenched.

"He's a smart son of a bitch," Mac scoffed. "He found Phoenix by looking up all the think tanks in Los Angeles, then looked for the one that stuck out to him as a cover. My calling you instead of the cops was what sealed the deal on the agent thing, but he suspected before that. I wasn't playing a civilian contractor, acting like a civilian would act, before that point; I was just trying to help Jack."

"Okay," Matty accepted his explanation. "Now, about that phone call...can you walk me through what happened during that and leading up to it?"

Mac hesitated, sifting through the fog of his mind. "They'd move me back and forth between the room I woke up in and..." he trailed off, quickly steering his thoughts away from that second room and everything that happened to him in there. "Anyway, the day I called you, Abel—that's Jack's nickname for one of the guys who tortured us, by the way; the pair of them were Cain and Abel—he woke me up, started to cut my hands free of the cot they had me on, but Asmara came in and stopped him. He, ah...he said that he...he found Victoria, so he was giving me the day off. I'd spotted a nail on the floor the first day, so I waited until my guard left and grabbed it, then waited until he fell asleep, and used it to get out of the zip ties. I'm sure you can figure out what happened after that."

"Tell us about the room," Cage prompted.

"There's not much to tell," Mac shrugged, still not looking at them, his growing frustration becoming evident on his face. "It was dark. On the table on the left hand wall, there was a mountain of explosives and other bomb-making materials. On the table in the middle, I saw a laptop, but it was locked. There was a cell phone plugged into it and charging, and it was unlocked, so I called you guys. I couldn't tell what the papers on the table were at first. I could barely see straight. I don't...I don't know how to help, guys; obviously, everything that happened before that phone call isn't exactly helpful, and after I got caught...there's so much I don't remember. At least, not clearly enough to be useful."

"Mac," Cage's voice made him blink and turn to her. "You're getting frustrated."

"Because I'm not helping," Mac confirmed, his sore jaw setting. "And I can't help."

"You're not letting yourself focus," his colleague countered. "I understand that this isn't something you want to relive, but we need to find Asmara."

"I know," Mac growled irritably. "Cage, I'm not avoiding my memories," even he wasn't sure he was telling the truth on that one, "it's just that they don't exist. They used my head as a punching bag; things are more than a little fuzzy."

"Mac," Matty's tone lost some of its gentleness, and he shifted his blue-eyed gaze to her. "Take a breath. We need you calm right now, okay? Let's start with something easy. You remember the convention center?"

Mac nodded mutely, his hands tightening ever-so-slightly.

"Good," Director Webber nodded. "Think about the bomb. Did anything about it stand out to you?"

"You mean, besides the fact that it used me as one of its parts?" Mac scoffed. Matty fixed him with a look, and he held up a hand in surrender. "Right, sorry...um...It was sophisticated. Way more sophisticated than I thought it would be. It utilized two types of explosives: the RDX I saw in the room I called from and..." his brow started to furrow in thought, "some other type of, um...of liquid explosive in the...barrels that the charges were on—Do you have a picture of it, actually?"

"Yeah," Cage nodded, pulling out her phone and bringing up the images taken at the crime scene, handing it to her colleague. Mac had to blink a couple times to bring the image into focus. Seeing the device again, however unclearly, one of the broken connections in the tortured agent's mind clicked back together, and he frowned.

"This isn't right," he muttered, flicking through the photos.

"What isn't right?" Cage pressed gently, not wanting to lose the lead.

"It...It's a huge bomb, and it definitely would have brought part of the convention center down, but...it's not big enough," Mac struggled to articulate what the problem was, his thoughts trying to catch up with his memory as he shook his head. After a moment, he looked over at them, frowning.

"Okay, so, turns out, I know a couple things," he sighed. "First of all, Abel is _extremely_ well-educated, and knew not only how to construct a bomb using four different trigger methods, but also how to mix liquid explosives—and, now that I'm thinking about it, enough anatomy to know how to do what he did to me without killing me. Second, there were _way_ more explosives in that room than were in the actual bomb."

"How much more?" Matty asked gravely.

"I saw...at least three times this much RDX in that room," Mac shook his head, handing Cage her phone back.

"Okay," Matty nodded, hiding how her stomach flipped over inside of her. "I've gotta go take care of that now, start putting alerts out to the other agencies so they can all be on the lookout, but Mac, I need you to keep talking to Cage."

"There's nothing else for me to—" Mac began rather irritably only for Matty to cut him off.

"I think we've already established that you know much more than you think you do," she gave him a stern look, and he fell silent, his jaw twitching slightly. "Work it out, Blondie; we need all the help we can get. According to you, there's at least one more bomb out there."

The young agent's expression became almost sad, dread settling in his chest, and he gave a resigned nod, his heart starting to beat just a bit faster. Matty offered him a sympathetic smile, squeezing his right hand gently before leaving the room. Mac caught a glimpse of his partner waiting for him, and smiled slightly, the sight calming him a bit. When the door closed again, Cage settled her eyes on him.

"Mac," her voice was ever gentle, and Mac dropped his gaze to the blanket covering the lower half of his body. "Mac, I know what you went through was awful, and I don't want to make you relive it, but we need to know as much as you do. I know you want to do something to catch him. Can you let me help you?"

Her question was met with hesitation. Yes, of course, he wanted—even needed—to help put Asmara away, but...more than anything else at that moment, he didn't want to recall what happened to him. He didn't want to put himself back in that room or back in that van. It was the first time in a very long time that he felt truly helpless, alone, without hope for rescue. Never in his adult life had he experienced that feeling. Not in Cairo—he'd had Jack, even then. Not even when Murdoc snatched him from his home—not only was he ever-confident, in spite of what Murdoc said, that Jack would have found him, but he was also able to save himself. As much as he didn't want to admit it, he'd lost faith in there. In himself, in the Phoenix...even in Riley and Jack. He really, truly believed that he was going to die, alone, at the mercy of that psychopath. He didn't want to feel that again.

But if he refused, if he let himself stay in his nice little bubble where he didn't have to think about Asmara or Abel or what they did to him, innocent people could get hurt. And even more than he believed he psychologically could not bear to relive what happened, he couldn't let that happen. So, the wounded agent took a deep, pain-filled breath, and nodded. Cage responded with a kind smile and dipped her head slightly.

"Okay," she sighed. "Tell me what happened after Asmara found you calling Matty."

Mac swallowed hard, his jaw twitching. He took a moment to gather his thoughts before he spoke.

"After he hung up, he woke up Abel, called him into that room..." he recalled slowly, clenching and unclenching his fists. "They talked for a minute...couldn't tell what they were saying...Abel kicked me in the shoulder...they talked again for a couple more minutes, and then Abel took me to...to the room they'd torture me in, and just beat the living hell out of me. No questions. No breaks. He was just trying to hurt me. And he was good at it."

He got quiet for a minute, remembering how viciously his torturer had attacked him, hitting every previous injury and creating several new ones even in the relatively short amount of time he had. Abel had sliced, punched, kicked, burned, tased, and suffocated him mercilessly, with no end in sight. It was the first time he was actually happy to see Asmara; it was only when he returned that Abel stopped. Eventually, he cleared his throat.

"I don't know how long it lasted, but at some point, Asmara came back, said something to him, made him stop," Mac explained, trying not to dwell on those memories. "They took me outside, left me by the side of the building while they finished packing up. I was barely conscious by then. Wasn't too long before they came and grabbed me, took me to the van..."

"Describe the van to me," Cage interrupted, her voice even and soothing.

Mac hesitated, closing his eyes as he tried to remember.

"Some kind of work van," he muttered after a moment. "Not...entirely positive what color it was; it was too dark to tell. Might have been gray, or a lighter shade of blue...maybe even white and really dirty; I don't know. There was some kind of a...a logo on the side."

"Could you tell what it was?" Cage asked, already guessing the answer.

"No," Mac shook his head. "Even if it wasn't dark, I couldn't see straight. It...it was a word though; a word and a picture. No, picture first, and then the word. The logo was...two shades of green...red, and...maybe yellow. Or white. Or both." He opened his eyes, "I'm sorry; I didn't get a great look at it."

"That's okay," she assured him. "That was helpful. It's at least something to go on. Keep going; what happened next?"

"They put me in the van," Mac shifted in his bed, clearly uncomfortable. "Tied my hands to a metal loop in the floor...They interrogated me the whole drive..."

"Okay, Mac, stop," Cage hit the pause button on his memories. "I want you to think about that drive. Not about what they did, not about what you felt, not about what you said, just about what you saw and heard. What did Asmara say to you when you got inside the van?"

This one, he did remember, in spite of his concussions.

"That he'd been being nice to me," he replied dully. "That I should have been more grateful. I almost wanted to laugh."

"What else?"

Mac frowned. There'd been more to that conversation; he knew there had been. That feeling of desperation, of fear, flared up in his chest again. Asmara had said something. Something so important. Something about what he was planning, something that...something that tipped his hand. It was on the tip of his tongue, but he just couldn't get it. It was...God, it was maddening.

"Mac," Cage's voice was twinged in concern, seeing his heart rate increase. "Mac, what is it?"

"I can't...I can't remember," he grumbled in frustration. "There was something he said..."

"Hey," her voice drew his eyes to her, "it's okay. We can come back to it. There's no sense in you spending hours trying to remember something when you could be actually remembering something else that's just as helpful. Can you tell me what you saw?"

Mac scowled, but not at her, frustrated with himself for not remembering. Eventually, he nodded in reluctant agreement, his blue eyes falling shut as he forced himself to picture the inside of the van. Asmara was on his right, sitting down, watching him, asking him questions. Abel was...well, moving all around him. He flinched and jumped involuntarily, trying to block them out, but it was nearly impossible.

"There were no windows," he began finally. "I couldn't see outside. I could... _barely_ hear the traffic around us. Neither one of them was wearing anything telling, but..."

He trailed off, frowning slightly.

"What?" Cage prompted after a few moments of silence.

"Asmara has something on the seat beside him," Mac grumbled. "It...it slid into me when we accelerated once..."

"What was it?"

"It...it was a book," Mac told her, opening his eyes to look at her. " _Pride and Prejudice_."

Cage blinked at him, just as confused as he was. "Did he have it before then?"

"I never saw him with it," he gave a helpless shrug before his eyes grew distant again. His lips parted slightly, as if he were going to say something, but he paused again, blinking slowly before speaking. "When it hit the floor of the van...it sounded wrong. It sounded...almost metallic. Hollow. It clanged instead of thudded. And when he picked it up, it rattled...and my blood, it...it dripped off the pages; they didn't soak any of it up."

"It was a fake book?" Cage guessed.

"Had to be," Mac shrugged. His colleague nodded thoughtfully, then texted something to Jack that prompted him to open the door and lean in.

"Right now?" He frowned.

"Yes, right now," Cage turned in her chair to glare at him.

Jack looked over at Mac, his frown deepening when he saw how uncomfortable he looked, but his partner forced a smile and nodded at him.

"Fine," the former Delta grunted. "I'll be right back."

He closed the door, and Mac and Cage were once again alone. Studying him, seeing how he kept clenching and unclenching his hands, twitching his jaw, and shifting his position, Cage could tell that he was nearing the end of his rope, and they'd have to try again later. But first...

"Mac," she got his attention again, and he looked up at her, his blue eyes shining. "Can you tell me what happened after you arrived in Los Angeles?"

Here, Mac flinched as though he'd been struck. His heart started beating steadily faster as fear sparked in his eyes. It took several seconds for him to speak, and when he did, his voice trembled.

"Nothing helpful," he told her firmly. "When I wasn't in the van, I was blindfolded, and they were speaking Portuguese."

Cage opened her mouth to speak, well aware that he was lying or at least not telling the whole truth, but she thought better of it, instead giving him a tight-lipped smile.

"Okay," she allowed, standing up. "Get some rest, Mac; we can try again later."

Mac nodded in agreement, not meeting her eyes, and Cage squeezed his good shoulder gently before she finally left him alone. It wasn't long before the morphine and exhaustion succeeded at pulling the young man back into unconsciousness.

* * *

 **I know, I know; there was a distinct lack of action in this one. I'm sorry about that; they can't all be thrillers. Action's not over yet, though; don't worry. I hope you all enjoyed! I'm sorry for the wait. I should have the next chapter out much faster than this one. Until next time!**


	22. Phase 2

Jack reached up and knocked on the door of the safe house—an apartment not far from the Phoenix—where Katherine and her family were staying until they could get them settled into their new lives. He heard someone move to look through the peephole, and he met their eye, giving a smile. After a moment, the door unlocked and opened, and one of the Phoenix agents assigned to the family, Alice Scott, moved aside to let him in. He gave her an appreciative nod, stepping inside. Katherine was the only one in the living room. She was sitting on the couch with her face in her hands, her shoulders stiff.

"Hey, Katherine," he greeted her. She sniffed and lifted her head, wiping her eyes before she looked over at him, forcing a smile.

"Hey."

"How're you holding up?"

Here, she hesitated, her smile falling away. "I'd be a lot better if you were here to tell me that you caught Selam and that we can go back to our lives."

"No such luck," Jack told her regretfully. "How's the family taking it?"

"I just told them that they have to abandon their lives, their friends, their school, their work, and go into hiding because I married a future terrorist twenty-five years ago," Katherine scoffed. "How do you think they're taking it?"

"Not very well," Jack mumbled, looking in the direction of the bedrooms, where he was sure the rest of the family was hiding out. "Listen, there's something I need to ask you."

"What?" Katherine tried to keep the misery from her voice, but she didn't do it very well.

"Well, we, ah...we got my partner back," Jack began, and Katherine let out a sigh of relief.

"Thank God," she breathed. "Is he alright?"

"Yeah," it was only sort of true, "he's okay. A little messed up, but...he'll get there. Anyway, he mentioned something about Selam having a book with him."

"A book?" Katherine's face scrunched in confusion.

"I know, weird, right?" Jack agreed, taking out his phone to review the text Cage had sent him. "Anyway, he had this book while he was moving my partner to the place we got him back from, and he doesn't remember seeing him with it before that point, and neither do I. So, that means he had to have gotten it when he went to your place. It would explain why he apparently went there to kill you but left before he could finish the job."

"I can't imagine why he would take a book from my house," Katherine muttered. "What book was it?"

Jack checked the text, " _Pride and Prejudice_."

"That doesn't make any—oh, no..." Katherine's confusion vanished, and her face lost its color.

"What?"

"It's a safe," her voice shook as she slowly looked up at him. "It's a book safe. The book he stole is a book safe."

"Okay, and what's in it?" Jack pressed, his concern growing. He'd known Katherine for about a day and a half—most of which was spent on a plane—but it had been enough time to pick up on the fact that she tended to repeat herself a lot when she got nervous.

"Well...I, ah..." Katherine looked down, chewing on her lip, and Jack tilted his head a little, his eyes narrowing.

"Katherine, what did you do?" he slowly sat down on the edge of the coffee table in front of her.

The woman hesitated, taking a deep breath as her eyes closed. "I might have screwed up, Jack..."

"How?"

"Um..." she cleared her throat, "back when...When Selam started acting different...angry, secretive, paranoid...he carried his computer everywhere, his laptop. Wouldn't let me anywhere near it. Hit me if I came into the same room as it while it was open, even if I didn't know it was. When he came for me, the night we...the night _he_ fled the country and took me with him, he took the hard drive out of the laptop and brought it with us. When we got there, when he thought I was asleep, he'd take it out, hook it up to a different laptop, and keep working. When he talked about it with his...friends, or his brother, he'd speak Arabic; I don't know what it was. But, I knew it was important. He wanted it. So, when you came and raided the camp...I took it. Hid it in my stuff. Took it with me when you flew me home."

"And you didn't think to tell us about it?" Jack gawked. "What were you thinking?!"

"I was thinking that I just turned my psychotic husband over to the people he hated most," Katherine snarled. "I was thinking that I had a baby to protect. I was thinking that Selam was the smartest man I'd ever met, and that I couldn't trust a bunch of strangers to keep him away from me and my son—which, apparently, that was a pretty good doubt to have. I wanted leverage, so I got some."

"Well, that's not bad logic," Jack admitted with a scoff. "But how'd it work out for ya?"

Katherine fixed him with a look, tears barely contained in her eyes. Jack's jaw tightened, and he got to his feet, starting to call Matty and trying not to blame the woman before him. Some part of him was furious; Selam was looking for her mostly because of what she took from him, and he and Mac were tortured trying to find her, so part of him thought, maybe if she hadn't taken it, if she'd turned it over...his partner wouldn't by lying in Medical right now, beat halfway to hell and still scared out of his mind. But he also had to remember that, if Selam hadn't grabbed them, hadn't surfaced, they probably never would have been able to stop the bombing of the convention center. Mac would be safe, but hundreds of people would be dead.

"Thanks for your help, Katherine," he said with some level of sincerity. "I'll let you know what we turn up."

With this, he left the apartment, giving a nod to Alice as he did so, and brought the phone up to his ear.

"Yeah, Matty, it's me," he sighed when she answered. "The weird book Mac saw was a safe."

"She tell you what was in it?"

"A hard drive," he told her as he jogged down the stairs. "Something Selam was working on before he ever left the country. She doesn't know what it is; he'd never talk about it in English in front of her. Whatever it was, he wanted it bad enough that he came out of hiding to snatch Mac and me just to try and get it back. He hadn't done that, and the convention center bombing probably would have gone off without a hitch, and he knows that, so whatever is on that hard drive, we should definitely be worried about it."

"Agreed," Matty mumbled thoughtfully. "I'll let Cage know."

"Hey, Matty," Jack stopped her before she could hang up. "How's our boy?"

"Sleeping," his boss replied with a sigh. "Talking with Cage really stressed him out."

"Alright, I'll be there in ten," he promised, climbing into his car.

"No, Jack, go home," Matty ordered firmly. Jack laughed bitterly.

"Oh, Matty, that was funny," he approved sarcastically. "I'm not going home 'til Mac's out of the woods. That was cute though."

"Jack, he _is_ out of the woods," Matty snapped. "He's here; he's safe; he is getting the best possible care. And he's asleep. He'll likely stay asleep for a long time—more than enough time for you to go home and follow his example. You have not had a full night's sleep since Brazil. For God's sake, Dalton, I'm amazed you're still upright. Go home. Get some sleep. Mac will still be here, probably still asleep, when you get back. That's an order."

Jack's jaw twitched. He knew just by her tone that if he didn't listen, she'd have security on standby to keep him out of the building. Eventually, he let out a weary sigh.

"You know, Matty," he said irritably, not bothering to hide his impatience. "Sometimes, I really hate working for you."

"Love you too, Dalton," Matty scoffed. "I'll see you in a few hours. And grab a shower while you're at it."

With this, she hung up, and after sitting there in silence for a few minutes, Jack finally put his phone back in his pocket and started for his apartment.

* * *

"This is so not fair," Amy felt like a cliché as she said the words, but she didn't know what else to say. She was in the second bedroom of the apartment they were staying in, her brother—her half-brother—pacing the floor in front of her, anger lining his face.

"Yeah," Charlie scoffed. "You can say that again."

"How could they not tell us?" Amy's voice shook. "This wasn't exactly something that didn't affect us!"

"You're telling me," Charlie's jaw twitched. "You're not the one who just found out their biological father is a terrorist."

"They didn't even tell us we weren't fully related," Amy scoffed.

"Okay, well, that I already had a feeling about," Charlie admitted.

"What?"

"Ames, look in the mirror," her older brother raised an eyebrow. Amy turned her head to see her reflection in the mirror on her left. She studied her long, straight brown hair, her almond shaped brown eyes, her relatively-fair skin, heart-shaped face.

"Now look at me."

Amy turned again, studied her brother's loosely curled, dark hair, his strong jaw, his dark eyes and dimpled chin, his darker complexion. She'd always known they looked almost nothing alike—though people said they had the same nose—but she'd never really studied the differences before.

"It didn't make a whole lot of genetic sense, me being biologically related to Dad," Charlie explained. "In high school, I thought maybe I just looked like Mom's side of the family, but I don't. I mean, I was fine with it—Dad is still my dad and you're still my baby sister—but now, not so much."

"How does that even happen?" Amy groaned, falling back against the pillows. "How do you just accidentally marry a terrorist?"

"In Mom's defense, I doubt she knew at first," Charlie sighed. "But you're right; it's bullshit."

"And now we have to pay for it," Amy felt her heart clench. "I'm supposed to graduate in June. I was supposed to go to Caltech. I can't even act on my acceptance anymore, can I?"

"I'm supposed to be going to med school in a year," Charlie added, leaning up against the wall. "Things were going so well with Emma...I can't even say goodbye."

"This isn't fair," Amy repeated, much more quietly this time.

Charlie was quiet for a long moment, thinking.

"You wanna do something crazy?" he asked finally. "Potentially very, very stupid?"

"Charlie, whenever you get a look like that, we always end up in serious trouble," Amy cautioned.

"Yeah, well, I'm not going into Witness Protection," he scoffed. "Not after everything I worked for. Not a chance."

"Well...technically, I don't think you have to," Amy reminded him. "I mean...you _are_ a fully-legal adult. Legally, I'm pretty sure you can leave whenever you want to. So can I, next year, technically. I mean...if that show _In Plain Sight_ taught me anything."

"Yeah but if I leave, I never see you or Mom and Dad again," Charlie pointed out.

"True," Amy sighed, leaning her head back. They were quiet for a moment before Charlie straightened up, his eyes wide.

"Oh, no," his little sister muttered. "Last time you got a look like _that_ , it ended with a kitchen fire and us both being grounded for three months."

"Yeah but this time, I...I could get us both out of this mess," he said slowly, gears turning behind his bright eyes. "I could get us all out of this mess."

"As much as I like the sound of that, I hate the sound of that," Amy admitted, her stomach churning.

"Yeah, well, you're kinda right to," her brother muttered. "Look, it's crazy, it's stupid, and it _might_ get me killed, but...it just might work."

"There's no way I can talk you out of this, is there?" Amy's dread was evident in her voice, and Charlie looked over at her, offering a sad smile.

"Nope."

"Brilliant," she sighed wearily. "What do you need me to do?"

* * *

 _Mac's grunt of pain was muffled by the rag in his mouth when he felt the crate he was in get set down. He was breathing hard, shaking with agony and terror, so confused as to what was going on, where he was...even why he was still alive. He could feel himself move again, this time downwards, and he vaguely realized that he was in and elevator. Outside the crate, he could hear Asmara's muffled voice, followed by the_ ding _of the elevator. The crate shifted again, and Mac whimpered almost soundlessly. He could hear dozens of footsteps, but he wasn't sure which ones were real and which ones his mind was making up. After a few moments, he felt himself get put down again, and dread settled in his chest. This was it, his final destination. That was the only explanation he could think of for why he'd been silenced and smuggled in; if they'd taken him somewhere to keep questioning him, there wouldn't be anyone around to hide from. Asmara was too careful for that._

 _As if to confirm his fears, he heard the top of the crate get pried off, felt four hands grab him, drag him out, and dump him onto rough concrete. He yelped quietly, groaning as he rolled on the floor, the black bandana tied around his head eliminating his vision. Someone sliced his hands free, and almost instinctively, he tried to fight, but someone kicked him in his bullet wound, making him give a muffled scream and collapse onto his back. Confusion flooded through him when he felt two people cutting his shirt away, and that confusion only deepened when they started forcing another, long-sleeved shirt on over his head. He struggled just out of principle, but he was no match for them. Before long, his costume change was complete, and his hands were once again restrained, this time behind his back._

 _The utterly exhausted agent heard someone crouch down beside him, and he tried to squirm away, but he felt a hand close around his throat, making him freeze._

" _Mac, I need you to listen to me," Asmara's voice, cold and sadistic, echoed in his ears. "Can you hear me? Nod if you can hear me."_

 _He wanted to refuse out of spite, but his terror got the better of him, and he nodded._

" _Good," he could hear, rather than see, Asmara smile down at him, and his skin crawled. "I want to give you one more chance to tell me what I want to know. If you tell me, I will take you out of here, and you won't have to be the cause of the deaths of hundreds of people. If you continue to be stubborn, you will not only cause their deaths, but also Jack's. I was going to let what I'm going to do to you be enough revenge on him, but you've really managed to get on my last nerve, so I'm going to have to punish you, too. Unless, of course, you decide to cooperate. So, how about it, Mac? Yes or no?"_

 _Much to his own disgust, Mac found himself considering the offer. He wasn't sure what he meant by him causing the deaths of those people, but it couldn't be good. And God, he was tired. Phoenix couldn't find him; if it could be done, it would have happened by then. Even if they'd managed to track his last distress call, they were hundreds of miles away from there by now, and he doubted Asmara would have left them any clues. He couldn't do this anymore. It was over._

 _Still, once he started talking, that was it. They'd know they could get to him, and his pain would never stop. Slowly, he shook his head in refusal._

 _Asmara growled furiously, releasing his throat only to grab his hair, pick his head up, and shove it back down into the concrete. Mac gave another muffled scream, the tears escaping his eyes getting absorbed by the blindfold._

" _Fine," his voice was even harder to decipher now, as he groaned and gasped for air. "Then let me tell you what you have to look forward to. You're going to die. That part's obvious. But you're gonna bring a whole helluva lot of people with you. Every piece of trash above us, ready to swear allegiance to the source of all the world's chaos—those who_ willingly _chose to join my enemies and those who support them—they will all perish today with you. When you are gone, those bastard children my wife left me to poison with the teachings of this country, they will follow you. My traitorous, thief wife and your scumbag partner will be next, and then phase three? Oh...I almost wish you were going to live to see phase three, Agent MacGyver."_

 _Mac jolted at the use of his full last name, unable to hide his panic, and Asmara chuckled._

" _Yeah, finally got that name of yours this morning," he sneered down at him gleefully. "Wasn't too hard once I found the Phoenix Foundation. Tell me somethin': what the hell kind of name is 'Angus?' Who names their kid something that stupid?"_

 _Mac's retort was muffled by the rag and the tape, and his captor's chuckle became a laugh._

" _Don't worry, Mac," he said with a sigh, "this'll all be over for you very soon."_

 _Mac heard him stand up, and seconds later, he stomped down hard on Mac's knife wound, forcing a silenced cry of agony from his sore, dry throat..._

* * *

Mac jolted wide awake, trembling, panicked, and this time, that panic didn't dissipate when he recognized his surroundings. He was alone, each of the chairs already vacated. Immediately, he pressed the call button on his headboard, desperation in his eyes, but no one came. He could hear a commotion outside, and the clock on the wall said it was about four in the morning, so if they were operating with the night shift crew—which was much smaller than the normal medical staff—and something happened with one of the other patients...

"No one's coming," he muttered to himself, the realization only making his panic worse.

He couldn't wait. Not with this. So, grunting in agony, he threw off his covers and sat up, slowly and carefully turning so that his feet were off the edge of the bed. He stood up, putting all his weight on his right leg, and looked around for something he could use to get around. He didn't have time to make anything, so he grabbed the rolling cart on which they brought in the numerous IV bags that fed into his right arm. Knowing he couldn't take the IV pole with him and stay balanced, he disconnected his IV and got moving, limping as fast as he could for the elevator. He could hear that commotion louder once he was out in the hall, coming from one of the other six private rooms, but he couldn't stop to see what was going on. Leaning on the cart, he made a beeline for the elevator at the end of the hall, pressing the call button insistently. He had to get out of there, find Matty, find...hell, find everybody.

It felt like an eternity before the elevator doors finally slid open, and he practically jumped inside. For a moment, he floundered, not sure which button to press to give him the best odds of finding someone. He wasn't even sure if anyone was still there; they might have actually managed to drag themselves home for some much-needed and well-deserved rest. There might be no one for him to tell.

 _Here's to hoping they've maintained some pretty poor sleeping habits as of late,_ the agent thought to himself, finally deciding to aim for the war room and pressing the appropriate button. The elevator doors slid closed, and Mac leaned heavily on the cart, one shaking hand brushing over the bandage wrapping up his left thigh, which was already burning. He blocked out the pain, though; this was so much more important.

When the doors slid open again, Matty and Riley were waiting for him.

"Mac, what the hell are you doing?" Matty demanded, her voice stern.

"You're in no condition to be walking around right now!" Riley chimed in, concern on her face.

"Believe me, I know," Mac laughed humorlessly, stepping off the elevator. "I didn't have a choice; you have to listen to me. Where's Jack? An-And...And Bozer; where are they?"

"I ordered them both to go home," Matty told him, her expression softening a bit. "Neither one of them has slept much recently. Why? What's wrong?"

"Call them," Mac was practically begging, his eyes wide. "Call them, please, just...just call them right now."

Riley didn't hesitate, and Matty soon followed suit. Riley got ahold of Bozer first; he picked up on the first ring.

"Hey, Boze, where are you?" Riley asked when her colleague answered.

"Comin' back to the office, actually," Boze replied, much to Mac's relief. "Can't sleep; house feels too empty without my boy right now. How's he doin', by the way?"

"Boze, I'm fine; just get back here fast—do _not_ go to the house," Mac interrupted, his voice still a little hoarse. "I don't have time to explain, so don't ask; just get back to the Phoenix now."

"Okay, okay, I'm about ten minutes out," Bozer couldn't hide his concern at the panic in his best friend's voice. "I'll see you soon."

"Good," with this, Mac nodded at Riley, and she hung up. Now certain that Bozer was safe, he turned his attention to Matty.

"He didn't pick up," his boss reported.

"Call him again," Mac demanded, feeling his stomach lurch.

"Mac, what is going—"

"Just call him again, Matty!" Mac snapped, his desperation evident. "Please!"

Matty's jaw set, but she called Jack again, putting it on speaker. Mac waited anxiously, praying his partner would answer. This time, he did, sounding cranky when he spoke.

"Jesus, Matty, make up your mind; do you want me to sleep or not?" he demanded drowsily.

"Jack!" Mac's eyes lit up when he heard his partner's voice. "Jack, thank God; listen to me: You need to get back to the Phoenix right now."

Back in his apartment, Jack sat up in bed, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as he turned on his bedside light.

"What's goin' on, Mac?" he asked gently, clearly concerned, as he went about getting dressed.

"There's no time, Jack!" the desperation and fear in his tone was heartbreaking. "Please, just trust me and get in here!"

"Hey, hey, hey, Mac, you listen to me," Jack's voice was ever soothing as he pulled on a shirt and his jeans, the phone pinned between his shoulder and his ear. "I'm getting ready to go right now, okay? Talk to me, Mac; what's wrong?"

"The convention center," the former Delta could hear his partner's wheels spinning as he tried to sort out his thoughts. "In...in the van, Asmara said the convention center was just phase one. Phase two, he said, was petty revenge. He's coming after you, Jack."

"Okay," Jack wasn't following, pulling on his socks and boots before grabbing his gun and turning off his light, heading for his front door. "I admit that sounds bad, and I appreciate your concern, but it's not like he knows where I live, brother. You're worried about nothing."

"Jack, he does know where you live," Mac told him gravely. "That's how he knew to search for think tanks in Los Angeles. Jack, please, just hurry up, okay? Have you left yet?"

"Just about to," Jack replied quietly, turning on the light in his living room. "Just trying to find my—"

The sound of glass breaking, followed by a thud and a groan, made Mac's heart nearly stop.

"Jack!" he shouted, his blue eyes wide and filling with tears. "Jack, what's happening? Jack!"

"Dalton, talk to me," Matty implored. They got no response, so she turned to Riley, who was standing there in stunned silence, tears in her eyes, her hands shaking.

"Dispatch Tac and Medical to Jack's place," she ordered. "Now!"

* * *

 **What can I say? I'm a sucker for action. And cliffies. C'mon; y'all HAD to know I wasn't gonna let either one of them off that easy, right? Also, hey, Mac, I don't mean to bother you right now, but I mean, don't forget about the children, okay? Cool. ;)**


	23. Useless

"Bravo team in position," Simmons heard his colleague, Shane Brown, report from the fire escape outside Jack's bedroom window, his voice a whisper. He and Alpha team were already outside his front door, in position.

"Charlie team in position," Devon Keeler reported in. He and Charlie team were covering the back entrance to the building, making sure they didn't have any surprises. Medical was waiting with an ambulance down the block.

"Alpha and Bravo, move on my count," Simmons ordered quietly. "Three...two...one."

Both teams quickly made entry. The front door was unlocked, so they were both able to enter in silence—and without damaging their colleague's apartment. Simmons was first in the door, and his jaw twitched when he saw the blood on the floor in the living room. Jack was nowhere to be seen, but there was a blood trail, like someone had dragged himself—or been dragged. Hoping for the former, he started to follow it. Behind him, his two companions cleared the kitchen and the living room, and they could hear footsteps in the bedroom and office belonging to the other team. The blood trail led back to the bathroom. He gave a silent signal to Brown, who was just emerging from the bedroom, and he covered him as Simmons threw the bathroom door open. They were met by Jack Dalton, barely conscious, covered in blood, propped up against the tub with his gun raised.

"Whoa, hey, easy, Dalton," Simmons hissed, lowering his gun and holding his trigger hand up. "It's just us."

Jack dropped his arm, his relief evident, and Simmons quickly shifted his gun across his back and came towards him.

"Brown, grab Kyser," he ordered over his shoulder, trying to locate the source of the cascade of blood that was coming down Jack's shirt and taking the weapon away from him, just in case. He finally found the blood source—a small bullet wound in his chest near his heart—and put pressure on it, causing the older man to give a grunt of pain.

"Sorry," Simmons muttered. "Just hold on, Jack; Kyser's on his way. You're gonna be fine; just stay with me."

Jack didn't respond, his pale face dripping with sweat, his brown eyes barely open, breathing heavily as he tried to stay awake. Kyser arrived in less than a minute, med bag in one hand and pulling the long, yellow, plastic stretcher behind him in the other, having already radioed Medical to come closer and get ready for him.

"Jack," Kyser's voice was firm as he handed two gauze squares to Simmons, who took one in each hand and pressed them against the entry and exit wounds in Jack's chest and back, mumbling another apology when he groaned. "Jack, can you hear me?"

He shined his pen light in each of Jack's eyes, and the former Delta didn't answer, flinching away from the brightness. He couldn't find the strength to speak. His shirt and jeans were soaked in blood. He'd only stayed awake to make sure that if Selam walked through that door, he'd eat a bullet. Now that Kyser was here, it was like his exhaustion was getting more intense by the second. He felt the young medic's fingers find the pulse in his neck, and vaguely saw him frown.

"We've gotta move him now," Kyser's voice was distant and echoing. The bleeding agent felt hands grab his legs and shoulders and put him on his back, rolling him to get the stretcher under him. As they started strapping him in, making sure to immobilize his head, Kyser tried to keep his attention.

"Dalton, look at me," he ordered. Jack's eyes were falling closed, and he snapped in front of his face a couple times. "I said look at me!"

The wounded agent pried his eyes open, looking up at his increasingly blurry colleague almost irritably, wanting nothing more than to go to sleep.

"Listen up, Dalton," Kyser growled. "If you die on me, if you make my coming out here at four in the goddamn morning all for nothing, if you leave _me_ to break the news to MacGyver, I swear to all things holy, I will kill you. You got that?"

Jack felt a small smile tug at his lips, and he gave a weak thumbs up—the best agreement he could give with his head immobilized—to which Kyser grinned.

"Good," he approved. Then he turned to the other two operatives in the room, "Let's move him."

* * *

"What do we got?" Doctor Evie Parker asked as she stepped into the OR.

"Forty-three-year-old male, perforating GSW to the chest," her assistant, Alex Hicks, explained as he and several nurses went about prepping the patient for surgery. "Heart rate one thirty, BP eighty-two over sixty-eight, O2 levels at eighty-seven and dropping. Several previous, unrelated injuries to his ribs. He's lost a lot of blood."

"Alright; let's do it," Doctor Parker sighed, stepping up to the side of the table and surveying the damage. She glanced up and saw one of the med students standing opposite her, her eyes wide in horror.

"Ah, Sheppard," the doctor smiled behind her surgical mask. "Still want to be a trauma surgeon? Watch closely."

As she spoke, she picked up a sixteen-gauge needle with an over-the-needle catheter, already lining up her placement and keeping an eye on her patient's falling O2 levels.

"Pop quiz, Sheppard," she sighed. "Listen to our patient's breathing; what do you hear?"

"Tachypnea and dyspnea," Abby Sheppard replied clinically, her voice surprisingly even. "Rapid and labored breathing."

"And what else do you hear?"

"Gurgling sound coming from the wound."

"Bingo. That plus the falling O2 levels, and what do you have?" by this time, Parker was inserting the needle in her hand into the second intercostal space in line with the middle of his collarbone.

"Tension pneumothorax," Abby replied clinically. "Air in the chest putting pressure on the heart and lungs. Can't take care of the bleeding until it's treated."

"And that treatment being?" Parker pressed.

"Needle decompression followed by tube thoracostomy," the young med student couldn't help but smile to herself, especially when they heard the air rush out of their patient's chest cavity when the doctor removed the needle and saw the O2 levels start to improve.

"Good, Sheppard," Doctor Parker approved. "Now, let's see if you can keep up."

The doctor moved her patient's right arm up over his head and identified the fifth intercostal space. She held her hand out towards Abby, and the young woman floundered for a moment.

"Doctor Parker, I'm only supposed to observe," she argued nervously.

"You're not operating on him," Parker scoffed. "You're just going to hand me what I need; if you're wrong, I'll tell you. Now c'mon; our friend, here, doesn't have all day."

Abby hesitated, then nodded quickly, grabbing the iodine and handing it to her without another word. From then on, Parker scarcely took her eyes off her patient, only doing so to check that her somewhat reluctant assistant had given her the proper item. She disinfected the whole area with the iodine, then draped the area—allowing Alex to handle that part, as he was already standing by for it—and held her hand out to Abby again. She was ready this time, handing her a scalpel and watching as Doctor Parker made a three-inch incision in the skin and passing her a kelly clamp when she silently asked for it.

"Alright, now, what should I be feeling when I put my finger in that incision?" Parker asked the young student after dissecting the tissue with the clamp, already inserting her finger.

"The lung," Abby replied readily.

"Perfect," Parker nodded. "And I do. All that's left is the tube. Alex?"

"Here," Alex handed her the plastic tube in question. Parker thanked her, clamping the tube at one end with the kelly clamp and then feeding the tube into the incision and through to the pleural space to the proper depth before removing the clamp. Then she attached the suction device and went about securing the tube and wrapping it with gauze to ensure an air-tight seal, taping the gauze in place.

"Alright," Parker sighed when she'd finished. "Now, let's see where this blood is coming from..."

Abby watched as Parker went about her examination, trying to follow the bullet's path and figure out the source of the massive blood loss.

"Well, this is just about the luckiest son of a bitch I've ever met," the surgeon muttered. "Bullet _grazed_ the right atrium. No penetration. No major surface blood vessels severed. Just a graze, and a tiny one, too. Bad news, I found the bleeding, and it's everywhere. The bullet pierced the lung, tore up several blood vessels...someone sure as hell wanted this guy dead."

"BP is dropping," Alex warned as one of the nurses applied suction to allow the surgeon to see better. If they didn't get the bleeding under control fast, they were going to lose the patient, no doubt. Doctor Parker took a breath to calm herself.

"Hey, Sheppard," her voice tore the med student's eyes away from their patient's injuries to look at her. "Pay attention; I'm about to do something awesome."

* * *

"No! Get off of me!" Bozer heard Mac's distressed voice as soon as he stepped off the elevator, and he jogged down to his room, his hand absently covering his wounded shoulder. He walked in to see Mac shoving Doctor Emerson back, and he quickly caught the man before they could crash into each other, steadying him as the doctor gave an appreciative smile. Matty was standing by the foot of Mac's bed, on the rowdy patient's right side, while Riley sat in one of the chairs, her head in her hands, looking absolutely exhausted on all levels.

"Mac, what's going on?" his best friend asked in concern, knowing what happened when he woke up earlier and wondering if it was happening again.

"I'm not letting you reconnect the IV," Mac growled angrily. He was sitting up in bed, trembling visibly—though from pain, fear, or exhaustion, he wasn't sure. It might have been all three, in addition to his evident fever. "Not until I know what happened to Jack. The morphine will knock me out if I do."

"Mac, I know you're upset, but you need to calm down," Matty ordered firmly, fixing him with a cold glare.

"I need to know what happened to Jack," Mac snapped, pausing for a coughing fit before continuing, "I'm not letting anyone touch me until I do."

"Mac," Bozer's presence finally seemed to register in his friend and roommate's mind, and some of the tension in his shoulders visibly lessened. "Take a breath, okay? Talk to me. What's going on? What happened to Jack?"

"Boze..." Mac swallowed hard. "Jack, ah...Jack's hurt. I don't know how bad. It was Asmara's doing. While I was sleeping, I remembered him telling me that the convention center was just phase one, that phase two was petty revenge. I remembered him telling me that...that once I was dead, he was gonna kill Jack and get even with me for not telling him anything, which was why I wanted you back here, too; I don't know if he knows about you, but he knows who I am, so it wouldn't be much of a stretch."

"He say anything else?" Matty asked before Bozer could speak, pouncing on the lead. "Anything or anyone else he might be targeting?"

Mac opened his mouth to answer, but stopped when Matty's phone rang. Director Webber pulled the device from her pocket, and, after checking the caller ID, put it on speaker.

"Kyser, you've got me, Riley, Bozer, and Mac," she told the medic. "What's the word?"

"Had to take Jack to the hospital," Kyser reported. "It was a lot closer than Phoenix. We'll move him back home when...if...he makes it out of surgery and is stable enough."

"If?" Mac felt his chest tighten in panic at the word. He couldn't bear to lose Jack. Not after everything that happened. He needed his partner, and the idea that he might lose him made him feel sick to his stomach. "What do you mean, 'if?' What happened?"

"Looked like a sniper," Kyster told him regretfully, giving a sigh. "He was shot in the chest. Through-and-through. Bullet missed his heart—barely—but he lost a lot of blood. He dragged himself into the bathroom, had himself propped up with his gun—waiting for his shooter to show up, more than likely. He, ah...he lost consciousness on the way out to the ambulance, and...and crashed once on the way to the hospital. Obviously, we got him back. He's in surgery now; I'm gonna stay until he's out."

All the air left Mac's lungs, and what little color he'd regained since his return left his face. "I want to be there," he gasped out finally.

"No," Bozer, Matty, Riley, and Doctor Emerson all replied at once.

"There's no reason to be, Mac," Kyser stepped in. "You can't do anything. None of us can. It's up to Dalton and the trauma surgeon, now. I wouldn't worry too much, kid; you know as well as I do how much of a stubborn son of a bitch Jack is. He'll be okay."

"You don't know that," Mac argued shakily, tears in his eyes.

"No, I don't," Kyser allowed. "But I do know that you being here isn't gonna do a thing for his chances one way or the other; all it's gonna do is take you away from the things helping you get better. I don't need to tell you that everyone's a lot happier, a lot better off, a lot safer with you on your game, so the sooner you can get back to that point, the better. Jack would say the same thing; you know he would."

"Yeah, well, Jack's not here," MacGyver snapped.

"Mac, you're not going," Matty told him, her voice leaving no room for argument. "You're going to stay here and recover. When Jack gets out of surgery, I will personally see to it that he's put right in here next to you, but until then, you're staying put. You're more use to us here, helping us figure out Asmara's next move."

"I'm not helping anyone!" Mac's frustration was evident, even as he flinched at the agonizing pain that shot through his skull when he yelled, glaring at the blurry representation of his boss that his concussed, feverish brain was providing. "Matty, I don't remember! Nothing I _do_ remember is useful! I am _useless_! And I might as well be useless with Jack."

With this, he started to stand up again, only to have Emerson push him back down onto the bed.

"I'll call you back, Kyser," Matty said shortly as Mac threw the doctor's hands off of him. The director hung up the phone, then turned to Emerson. "Sedate him."

"No!" At this, Mac started to fight, and Bozer and Riley had to come to the doctor's aid, gently pinning their friend to the hospital bed. This action seemed to send him from annoyed to terrified, and he struggled hard against their grip. He was no match for them; he was once again in a lot of pain, having been disconnected from the morphine long enough for it to wear off, and the way he'd been treated over his twelve-day absence—not being allowed food and only barely being allowed water—had left him extremely weak. The way he'd exerted himself earlier wasn't helping, either; he'd spent what little energy he really had left to get out of bed and go find Matty and Riley.

"Hold him still," Emerson ordered, grabbing a syringe and a bottle of clear liquid, starting to draw up the proper dose.

"Let me go!" Mac's voice had lost its anger, replacing it with desperation, panic, and, to his friends' heartache, fear.

"It's for your own good, Mac," Matty's voice was gentle, now, immense sympathy in her expression. Mac's heart was pounding in his chest, his new rush of adrenaline bringing with it confusion and waves of unpleasant memories. His mind was scrambling, trying to figure out the difference between what he was remembering and what was actually happening, the line suddenly becoming very, very blurry. All sense and rationality seemed to abandon him, his only focus on freedom and survival. His panicked blue eyes found Bozer's soft brown ones, and when he spoke, his voice trembled.

"Boze, please," he begged as Emerson withdrew the syringe from the bottle and turned to him. "Please, don't let them do this to me...please, please, don't let them do this to me again...please..."

His use of the word 'again' confused his roommate, who vaguely realized that Mac likely wasn't one hundred percent with him anymore. He felt a pang of sadness as he looked at him, knowing how much he must have suffered and knowing that him holding him down was only scaring and confusing him more.

"I'm sorry, Mac," he said sincerely, his left arm pinned across his friend's chest and his right hand holding his arm down, feeling how hot his skin was in spite of his trembling. Mac's eyes grew even wider with terror, which made Bozer flinch as Emerson came up beside him and inserted the syringe into the IV line still in the wounded agent's arm, injecting the sedative quickly.

"No, no, no..." tears fell from his eyes as he continued to fight futilely against his friends' grips. "No, please...please...no..."

His voice faded, and soon, he stopped fighting. Riley and Bozer slowly released him, each letting out a breath. Bozer swallowed hard past the lump in this throat; this was his first time seeing his best friend awake since they'd gotten him back, and he was so unlike himself that it felt like a hard kick in the gut to see him like that. As Emerson reconnected the IV line Mac had discarded, the lab tech reached out and gently squeezed his best friend's right shoulder reassuringly.

"I want him in restraints before he wakes up," Matty spoke up after a moment, causing both Riley and Bozer to look at her incredulously.

"What?" Bozer spoke first, feeling anger spark in his chest. "He was tied up for almost two weeks, and now you want to tie him up again?"

"I don't _want_ to do anything," Matty fought to keep her patience. "But the last time Mac woke up with people around, he almost broke Taryn's hand, and this time, we don't have Jack to talk him down. He's already gotten out of here once; I don't trust him not to do it again when he wakes up. He needs to rest. And it's either I restrain him or I put guards next to his bed; a determined MacGyver could get out of here with one hand behind his back if I did anything less. He would find a way to get to Jack, and he needs to stay here to recover."

"Then why can't you just have one of us stay with him?" Bozer challenged. "He wakes up restrained and it's gonna put his mind right back with Asmara. You're basically going to convince him that he's not safe. Hasn't he spent enough time being terrified lately?"

"Our team, in case you haven't noticed, is down a few members right now, Bozer," Matty argued. "I need all hands on deck to find Asmara; I have no one to spare."

Bozer's jaw set, looking down at Mac's sleeping form protectively. This wasn't fair. Mac had already been through so much; he didn't need to be treated like a criminal on top of it.

"Boze, I don't like it, either," Matty sighed. "But it's the best I can do under the circumstances. This is the best way I know to keep both Mac and my staff safe."

"I'll get you patched into the security feeds," Riley promised. "You'll be able to watch him the whole time, see when he wakes up."

Bozer hesitated. He knew it was the best she could do, and she was trying to help, but he couldn't stop himself from feeling a bit of anger at the suggestion. He'd already been forced to leave his friend once; now they were expecting him to do so while they tied him up like a common criminal? Still, it was going to have to do.

"Fine," he agreed finally, as if he really had a say in the matter at all. "But I want to go on record and say I don't like this."

"Noted," Matty raised an eyebrow. "Now, as long as you're here, get back to work. Riley, I want to talk to you in the war room before I go check in with Cage. Doc, let me know if anything changes with him."

Having issued everyone's marching orders, Director Webber left her agent's room, heading for the elevator. Riley followed her, stopping to give Bozer's good shoulder a sympathetic squeeze. Bozer stared at Mac apologetically for a few moments, giving Riley and Matty ample time to get in the elevator and go, not wanting to share the same space as them. Finally, he left his best friend in Emerson's capable hands, heading back down to the lab. He may as well get back to work.

* * *

"So," Matty sighed as she and Riley entered the war room. "I'm not going to ask if you have any leads on where that bastard might be; you just let me know as soon as you get anything. Any idea what Asmara might have on that hard drive?"

At this, Riley frowned. After a moment, she shook her head and put her laptop down on the table in the middle of the room, taking a seat.

"No," she admitted. "And the whole thing is bugging me."

"How so?"

"Well, for starters," Riley sighed, rubbing her weary eyes. "Asmara worked intelligence gathering and helped coordinate military movements. Now, if he'd stockpiled a bunch of that stuff, that would explain why he was still looking at it after he left the country, but not why he was so desperate to get ahold of it now; anything he had back then would be useless, now. It'd be over twenty years old."

"Okay, so what else could it be?" Matty asked.

"Beats me," Riley scoffed. "I guess it could be a virus, but...I mean, a virus written twenty years ago? It wouldn't stand a chance against today's systems. Any weak spots in whatever system he's targeting probably don't exist anymore. Not to mention the operating system he's used to probably isn't in use anymore. I mean, I can't be sure on that, since I was barely alive at the time he was working on whatever's on that hard drive, and don't know what system the 'high-tech' agencies were using back then, but it's a safe bet, I think. He could be just trying to use the base code and then tweak it, but honestly...the amount of tweaking he'd have to do, he may as well start over."

"So what could he possibly have on there...?" the question wasn't directed at her analyst, more like a pondering out loud. After a moment, she shook her head.

"We'll worry about it later," she decided. "What about Asmara? Any leads on him?"

"Well...kind of," Riley nodded, opening her computer, blinking and shaking her head to wake herself up. "I went back over the convention center footage and found him, that guy Cage is interrogating, and a bunch of other guys really early in the morning, taking the bomb stuff down to the storage area disguised as a shipment of supplies for one of the events taking place later this week."

"I assume they left long before we even showed up."

"Yeah. Asmara left about an hour and a half before we got there, took most of his guys except Abel and one other guy, who probably kept an eye on Mac while Abel finished up the bomb. He left a completely different way than Abel, and I never had a picture of his face to run facial recognition on, which was why we never saw him while we were clearing out the building. He was smart enough to avoid cameras as he was leaving, so I don't know what car he left in. I have gathered a few more faces I can search for, though, so that's something."

Matty nodded, processing this information. She hated to admit it, but for now, they were essentially helpless; they had no leads on where Asmara might be going or what he might be planning, and their best witness was avoiding his memories like the plague. Some of those memories, sure, she could believe he couldn't access—she'd seen his brain scans—but not all of them. Jack wasn't going to be able to help them much; he'd already given them everything he knew. The same went for Katherine. Their only hope at getting some leads was Cage, unless Mac finally let them in, and she didn't hold high hopes for that. The director let out a sigh.

"Okay...you set up any searches you need, and then you have two options: Go home and get some sleep, or go meet up with Kyser at the hospital and wait for news on Jack," Matty told her, already knowing which one she'd pick. "I don't want you online for at least thirty-six hours; you've been at it almost non-stop since we found out Mac was alive. You need rest."

Riley hesitated, then gave a nod of agreement and an appreciative smile. "I'll be out in ten minutes."

"Good," Matty approved. "I'm gonna go talk to Cage."

* * *

 **Listen, guys...just listen...I know, I _know_ there hasn't been a ton of action lately. It makes me sad, too. I'm trying. But you know what's really, really hard to do? Put in action scenes when literally every single one of your field agents is injured—two at a bedridden level—and/or not in enemy hands. I can't just, like, make ninjas attack the Phoenix (although that would be awesome in a different story). It has to make sense. Also, I have some more exposition-y parts before I can get back to the fun part. Bear with me; this shouldn't be too much longer. Still, I do hope you all enjoyed!**

 **Also, in case some of you were wondering, I do very extensive research for everything I write, so I'd say 95% of what I put in is as accurate as I can make it without A. literally instructing the internet how to make explosive devices (it was weird enough when I was asked several test questions on it), B. actually going to med school, or C. being an actual Mensa-level genius.**

 **And finally, last note, I'm sorry this took so long to post. I've had a busy few weeks, and just drove 2 days to get back to school. My classes start Tuesday, after which point I will be in a lab for, I'm not kidding, 24 hours a week. Even though I'm only taking 12 credits this semester and only 6 of those credits come from my 4 labs. YES, I'm still bitter about it. One last semester. I can do this.**


	24. Bait

When Director Webber arrived outside interrogation, she found Cage sitting on the floor against the wall, her eyes closed. She didn't look tired at all—a trick of makeup and sheer force of will—but Matty knew she was exhausted by that point. They all were. That was probably the main reason it was taking her so long to get anywhere with Abel; she had been working tirelessly since Mac and Jack went missing.

"Cage," her voice made the field agent open her eyes and lift her head. "You get anywhere with him?"

"He irritates me," Cage admitted.

"Does he know that?" Matty raised an eyebrow.

"No, of course not. But he irritates me," Cage muttered. "I know he speaks English. I can tell. But he hasn't said a word, not even in Portuguese. I've been trying to make him think I don't speak Portuguese so he'll slip up and say something, thinking I can't understand, but he's just silent. It's creepy, actually. Has Riley got anything on who he might be? I'm pretty sure I'd rattle him if I went in there with his name."

"I've got one of the techs working on it," Matty assured her.

Cage hesitated, studying her before tilting her head slightly. "What aren't you telling me?"

Matty frowned. Sometimes she hated how good Cage was at reading people.

"It's Jack," the director sighed. "He was shot by a sniper early this morning. Part of Asmara's revenge plan. He's in surgery now; we're not quite sure how bad it is. But it is bad. He crashed once in the ambulance. Mac thinks Asmara might know about Bozer, too, so he's staying here until I can figure out how to get him home. Mac is sedated upstairs because if I don't somehow incapacitate or immobilize him, he will find a way to get out and go to Jack. Riley's on her way to the hospital to wait for news."

"Oh, God..." she paled visibly, absently brushing some loose hairs from her face with her cast-covered left hand. "Is there anything I can do?"

"Get this guy to talk," Matty replied readily. "That's the most important thing right now; he's all we got. By both Mac and Jack's accounts, he's Asmara's number two. We need to know what he knows. We need to know it now. I know you're trying, Cage, but—and I mean this with the utmost respect—try harder. Take a break if you need it, but then do what you need to do to get answers. I'll let you know as soon as we get any news."

Cage nodded, her blue eyes hardening, prompting her boss to offer a slight smile before heading back the way she came. When she was gone, Cage stayed sitting on the floor for a few moments longer before she got to her feet, shook her head to clear it, and walked back into interrogation.

* * *

Kyser sat in the hospital waiting room, leaning forward, his elbows on his knees and palms pressed together as his chin rested on his thumbs. His left leg was shaking nervously as he waited for news from inside the OR. He kept glancing up at the clock on the wall opposite him every few minutes before flicking his eyes to the doors behind which Jack had vanished. In the seat beside him, Riley was sitting sideways, her knees pulled up to her chest, her arms folded between her legs and chest, and her head leaning against the wall. She'd fallen asleep not long after arriving, her exhaustion finally crushing her. The field medic let her sleep; there was no reason she had to be awake and worried. He'd rouse her when they had news.

The seconds felt like years. Every minute was agonizing. He'd been confident with MacGyver because he had to be for the younger agent's sake, but he knew by the angle of the shot that it was bad news. Now, he'd meant what he'd said, of course—he and Simmons had known Jack for ten years, way before Phoenix, and both knew as well as anyone that he would hold on out of spite if nothing else, given the choice. But that was the problem; he might not have a choice. Even Jack Dalton had his limits.

Finally, after waiting for nearly five hours, a doctor emerged from behind those double doors, and her eyes fell on him. The medic's stomach lurched, and he turned to Riley, shaking her gently.

"Riley," he said with urgency, standing up. "Riley, wake up."

The young analyst groaned, stretching and yawning as she rubbed her eyes absently. She blinked a few times, looking from Kyser to the doctor, and quickly got to her feet, her eyes hopeful as she stared at Doctor Parker, holding her breath. She felt her heart clench when she saw that the woman looked far too sympathetic.

"Well, I have good news, and I have bad news," the surgeon admitted with a sigh, glancing between Riley and the medic as she clasped her hands together. "The good news is that Jack made it out of surgery. He's critical, but stable for the moment."

Riley let out a sigh of relief, but Kyser's face remained stoic.

"And the bad news?" the medic pressed.

"He lost a lot of blood," Parker told them regretfully. "He went into hypovolemic shock. We did all we could for him, but...We won't know the extent of the damage he sustained until he wakes up, and that's if he wakes up."

Riley's face lost all color and Kyser's eyes closed as he rubbed his brow.

"But...but he's gonna be okay, right?" Riley's voice was weak and breathy when she spoke. The idea that Jack would be anything other than alright was not only terrifying, but it seemed impossible. Some part of her still held that little girl belief that he was somehow invincible. Even after she joined the Phoenix and witnessed him getting injured first hand, she'd never once feared for his life. Jack was always okay. Why would this be any different?

"He could be," Parker allowed. "It is entirely within the realm of possibility that there was little to no brain or organ damage sustained. From what I understand, he was only down for a short time in the ambulance, and in surgery, we were able to replenish his blood volume quickly, so the oxygen deprivation—theoretically—shouldn't be too bad. But it would be wrong of me to tell you everything is going to be fine, because I don't know that. So far, he's looking good. Good response to stimuli, good oxygen levels, good blood pressure. I am optimistic. But we won't know for sure until he wakes up. I don't want to tell you that everything's gonna be fine until I know that for a fact."

Riley nodded in understanding, looking down as she tried to gather her thoughts. After a few moments, she looked up.

"Can we see him?" she asked hopefully.

"Of course," Parker nodded. "I sent him for a CT and an MRI to see if I could actually see any damage. He should be getting to his room in just a few minutes."

"When will we be able to transfer him?" Kyser inquired, trying not to dwell on the organ damage possibility.

"Transfer?" Parker looked at him in confusion. "Why would he be transferred?"

"Well, he has...family at another hospital, getting treatment," the medic replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "And believe me when I say that they'd both really benefit from being close by each other."

"Ah," the surgeon gave an understanding smile. "Well, I would like to keep him here for at least a few hours, make absolutely sure that he's stable enough, but after that, he's all yours."

"Thank you," Riley broke in. "Just...thank you so much."

Parker gave a sincere smile. "You're more than welcome. Would you like me to take you to his room?"

"Yes," the young analyst agreed quickly.

"You go ahead," Kyser sighed. "I'll catch up; I need to call Matty."

Riley nodded in agreement, following Doctor Parker down the hallway towards Jack's room, leaving Kyser behind.

"Now, when you see him, don't be too alarmed," the older woman warned. "He's on a ventilator, but keep in mind, he was just shot in the lung; the odds are very good that he will be taken off of it very soon. We want to give his organs time to heal. Not to mention the fact that, with his previous rib damage, this is likely one of the only things insuring he's breathing evenly and deeply."

Riley nodded wordlessly, though her words made her nervous. By the time she and the surgeon arrived, Jack was already there. A nurse was adjusting the settings on some of the various machines surrounding the wounded agent. There were numerous bags hanging from his IV pole, feeding into his arm through a tube. Another, much larger tube was being fed into his throat through his trachea, and this was the tube connecting him to the ventilator. Riley froze in the doorway; he looked so small and fragile, surrounded by all those machines, his skin pale. The sight knocked all the breath from her lungs. Her brain was almost denying that she was even looking at Jack at all. Cold terror shot through her stomach, the idea that he might not be okay after all suddenly seeming more real than ever.

"His sedatives should wear off soon," Doctor Parker's voice jolted the analyst from her thoughts. "He'll be able to speak, theoretically, but probably not for too long at a time. He'll probably stay on the ventilator for at least a week before he's weaned off it. Please, don't hesitate to call if you need anything."

The surgeon gave her a gentle smile before she and the nurse exited, leaving Riley alone with Jack. After shaking herself from her shock, the young woman wordlessly grabbed a chair and pulled it up to Jack's bedside. Her hands trembled as they closed around his, and she swallowed the lump in her throat.

"Jack, I...I don't know if you can hear me, but...I don't know, they always can in movies, so..." her voice was small, quiet, almost tentative as she fought the tears threatening to spill out from her eyes. "Just...don't die on me, old man. Please. You can't just leave me like this. I'm already mad at you for making me get all sappy right now; don't make it worse. Besides...Mac is really, really messed up right now; he's gonna need you. And Matty—you know she talks tough, but she loves you, too. And...and Bozer's not gonna know what to do without you, and..." her voice broke, and she took a moment to compose herself before continuing, "and I need you too, Jack...please, don't do this to me...please, just for once in your life, do as you're told and make it out of this, okay?"

Of course, Jack didn't answer, and Riley let her head drop, squeezing his hand desperately. Elwood may be her father, and she may be trying to have a relationship with him, but Jack was the closest she ever came to having an actual dad. For all the jabs she liked to shoot at him, all the teasing and the jokes and the eye rolls, she needed him. And it took almost losing him to realize exactly how much. Even after getting him back from Asmara, he never really came back until they got to Mac, too. To lose him so soon after he truly came home...she was almost certain that that was more than she could bear.

By the time Kyser returned from updating Matty, Riley's exhausted mind had pulled her back into unconsciousness, and she slept on the edge of Jack's bed, one hand still clinging to him, even in slumber.

* * *

Cage sat in the interrogation room, her feet up on the table that stood between her and the man nicknamed "Abel," not paying the man any attention as she played a game on her phone. She'd decided that, if he wanted to play the silent game, then she'd just have to play it better. Hurting him would do no good; it was what he was expecting, and he knew the routine. She didn't want to let him have any routines. Routines made people comfortable, allowed them to adjust. She wanted to defy everything he'd come to expect from them. He expected pain; she wouldn't inflict any. He expected desperation; she was going to take her time. He expected questions; she wasn't going to ask any. There wasn't any point, anyway; she had no leverage against him, and they both knew it, but she didn't need any. Without her voice to break the complete and utter silence—she even had her phone silenced—she noticed Abel starting to squirm, though she never took her attention away from her game. He was not comfortable with how relaxed, calm, and...patient she was being. It was as if she came in from the hallway a completely different person. To see her behave so casually...

Cage stifled all reactions when Abel muttered something under his breath in Portuguese. She recognized it as an insult—like "stupid bitch," but meaner—but she was not bothered by it. On the contrary; She was delighted to hear it. It meant that her plan was starting to work. Anticipation was often the best tool in an interrogator's arsenal; waiting for her to make her move was killing him. She didn't move beyond frowning as she lost the level she was working on, restarting it quickly. Her lack of reaction only seemed to frustrate the prisoner more. They sat there in continued silence for several more hours, Abel starting to fidget more and more as the seconds ticked by. Finally, she received a text, and she fought to hide her smile. Gotcha.

Still, she played it cool, practically feeling the tension radiating off of her opponent as she continued to ignore him. He was close. The combination of boredom, silence, lack of reaction on her part, and anticipation was wearing him down. He was tired. He was hungry. He was irritated. He'd talk out of annoyance sooner or later.

And sure enough, an hour after she received the text, he snapped. His Portuguese was rapid and hers was rusty, but she was able to piece it together.

"Are you so stupid you forgot how to speak, bitch?" he demanded furiously. "Or have you finally realized that asking me questions is pointless? No matter what you do, you'll never learn what you need to know in time to stop the inevitable. Your friends will die, your children will burn, your country will perish in the rubble and the plague, and there is nothing you can do about it. You can't even figure out my name; how could you ever hope to stop us?"

Finally. Cage felt a small smile tug at her lips, and she tore her eyes away from her phone to look at him. Abel leaned back in his chair, glaring at her, smirking as though he'd won something, and Cage's smile grew as she dropped her feet and turned so she faced him fully.

"On the contrary, Tiago Cunha Souza," she said calmly and evenly, her gentle smile remaining on her face as Abel—Tiago Souza—lost all color. "I know a great deal about you. You were born on August 11, 1986 in Fortaleza, Brazil. Your mother's name is Lara Souza. There's no father listed on your birth certificate, but judging by your facial structure, I'd guess he was of European descent—he may have even been American. You were a stellar student, miles ahead of your peers, all throughout school, but when you were sixteen, you dropped out because your mother had gotten sick, and with no siblings or other family, it was up to you to take care of her. You did what you could, but she died a year later, leaving you nothing. Since you did not qualify for university admission, you couldn't go back to school. So instead, you started teaching yourself a variety of skills, from coding to medicine to, apparently, bomb construction. You fell pretty much completely off the grid roughly six months after Asmara escaped during his prison transfer, which is likely when you met up with him. The man Jack said was your partner—the man I shot at the airstrip—was Tomás Pereira Barros. He went to school with you, and ended up getting kicked out of his university only to drop off the face of the earth much like you did six months later. The only thing I can't figure out about you, Tiago, is how someone as smart and resourceful as you was so easily manipulated by Asmara. What pull could his plans possibly have had? What could he have said to get you to follow him? Now, I don't doubt that you would have turned to violence sooner or later regardless of Asmara's influence, and you may have even carried out that violence on this same scale—you have a lot of anger brewing in you—but...I don't understand how you let yourself become someone's lap dog."

"Oh, you fucking—" Tiago began in Portuguese, only for Cage to cut him off.

"What's the matter, Tiago?" she asked with a smirk. "You think I'm wrong, that you're not Asmara's lackey, the one who did his dirty work just so he could keep his hands clean? You are. It was Asmara's plan from step one; you were just along for the ride. He saw that you were alone, abandoned, without prospects, and he used you. He took you in, made you feel like you owed him. You were just his tool, his weapon. You're nothing to him; why do you think he left you at the convention center? Do you really think that he believed you'd be able to get away? No. He had no further use for you, so he discarded you, and he knew you wouldn't turn on him because he'd molded you himself. Looking at your background, I'd have thought you'd be smarter than that, but...here we are."

By that time, Tiago was visibly fuming, just as Cage knew he would be; his ego was fragile to say the least. Her taking shots at his intellect was infuriating. After several moments of silence, the young man slowly smiled, venom in his glare.

"I'll tell you what, sweetheart," he hissed in his native tongue, now certain that he could be understood. "You pity me now, and I will pity you later, when your world comes crashing down."

Cage smirked at him. Although she didn't get as far as she would have liked, she did get under his skin, and she'd gained some traction. It was a start. It was a foundation. It was progress. And, as she received another text from Matty, telling her to call it a day (for the sake of her pitiful sleep patterns) and that they had updates on Jack, she decided it would be good enough for now. Besides, boredom seemed to be a good tactic to use against Tiago; a mind like his needed stimulation, needed an opponent. Leave him without that, and he would crumble on his own. So, without a word, she stood up and left the room, abandoning him in isolation once more.

The field agent found Matty in the war room. This time, she was alone; not even Bozer was with them.

"Bozer's worried enough about Mac," Matty answered her unasked question. "No need to add to it when nothing is certain."

"What's the news?" Cage asked, folding her arms over her chest, concern on her face.

"Dalton made it out of surgery," Matty sighed. "But they're not sure yet if he has any brain or organ damage; he went into hypovolemic shock while they were operating. It's unclear if they were able to stop the bleeding and get his blood pressure back up in time to prevent any damage due to lack of oxygen. His condition as of five minutes ago was critical but stable. We're going to try and transfer him later today."

"What can I do?" Cage asked almost helplessly.

Director Webber hesitated, glancing up at the monitor to her left, which showed the live feed of interrogation. "Have you made any progress?"

"Actually, yes," Cage nodded. "Whether he knows it or not, I'm under his skin. Boredom and isolation work against him. He's also expecting me to push so when I didn't, he spoke first. He was rattled when I talked about him and his background. He got angry when I attacked his intelligence. He knows I speak Portuguese now, but I think that's a loss I'm willing to accept. Something he said earlier was odd, though: 'Your friends will die, your children will burn, your country will perish in the rubble and the plague.' I think the rubble is obvious; we know Asmara still has more explosives, but..."

"Gotta say, the word 'plague' concerns me," Matty mused. "And of course the 'children' part. Seems odd to single them out."

"I agree," Cage sighed, rubbing her brow. "It's slow with him. But the fact that I've gotten him to say anything at all is a good sign. It should be a bit easier from here on out, but that's not saying much, to be honest."

"Well, keep at it," Matty shrugged. "That's be best we can do right now. We are doing everything we can do to find that bastard. Best thing you can do now is rest up. If it's the last thing I ever do, I'm gonna get this team back on a semi-regular sleep schedule. Go; I'll call if anything changes here."

Cage hesitated. She wanted to keep working, wanted to feel like she was doing something productive, but she was also the most sleep-deprived one of the team; since Jack and Mac went missing, she'd only gone home a few times, instead grabbing quick cat naps and showers at the Phoenix so she could keep working. Even she had to admit that she was nearing her limits. So, she reluctantly agreed, turning and leaving the Phoenix for the first time in four days. When she was gone, Matty turned back to the monitor, studying Tiago for a moment, her stony expression hiding her worry. If they didn't get ahead of this, there was no telling what kind of damage Asmara could unleash, and with none of their witnesses cooperating, she didn't know how it was going to be done.

But it always was. Her people never let her down in the end. This would be no different.

Hopefully.

* * *

When Mac started to come to, he couldn't quite remember what happened before he fell asleep. It was a blur to him, the result of a combination of his concussions, his fever from the infection, and the sedatives he'd been given. But as he tried to reach up and rub his eyes, only to find that he couldn't move his hands, he felt panic shoot through him only for despair to crush him immediately after. It was never real. His rescue, Bozer, Jack...it was all a dream. His worst nightmare—waking up only to find that he'd never escaped at all—was no longer relegated to a nightmare. He wanted to scream, to cry, to throw something, even, but he didn't have the strength. His thoughts began to race as much as they could while he was wounded and sedated. How much of his rescue was imagined? Was Jack really hurt? Or worse...was he dead? Was Cage really alive? Had Bozer really been hurt? And...what was Asmara going to do to him, now?

That thought made fear crash through him, pure, primal fear that made his heart race and his chest heave with panicky breaths. None of the answers to that question were good, especially since his captor now knew so much about him. The wounded agent pulled against his restraints as much as he could, wanting more than anything to get out of there, to find Jack and just go home. He didn't hear the footsteps that would have warned him of someone's arrival, but he flinched and whimpered when he felt someone put a hand on him.

"No," he whimpered, refusing to open his eyes—not wanting to see his new prison, wherever it may have been, in some kind of childish 'if I can't see it, it's not there' kind of mentality—his hands tight fists as he tried to get free, writhing on his hospital bed. It didn't register that the touch was gentle; he was still expecting pain at any moment, and the cocktail of drugs in his system was only deepening his confusion. "No, no, please..."

"Mac," the voice was calm, gentle, and oddly familiar, though he couldn't quite put his finger on who it might belong to. "Mac, open your eyes. It's okay; you're okay. You're safe; just open your eyes."

"No!" Mac tried to throw off the hand on his shoulder, tears leaking from his tightly-shut eyes, desperation starting to take over. "No, let me go! Get off of me! Leave me alone!"

He started fighting harder, more violence in his tugs, ignoring the sharp pain that came with every movement. The restraints weren't like the ones he was used to; they were wider and softer, didn't bite into his skin, but that hardly registered; he was only focused on freedom.

"No, Mac, stop!" the voice from earlier became somewhat frantic. "Stop! You're going to hurt yourself!"

"Let me go!" Mac's voice was tight and full of terror. "Please, just let me go!"

"Mac!" This time, the voice was new, and Mac recognized it quickly. Bozer. In just a few seconds, he felt his best friend's hand on his arm, but he still didn't want to open his eyes, and he kept pulling against his restraints, still very much wary that this might be some kind of trick. He could feel a needle in his arm, likely connected to an IV; God knows what Asmara could have him on.

"Mac, it's me," Bozer continued, concern, sadness, and guilt in his tone. "You're at Phoenix. None of it was a dream; you're safe."

"Yeah?" Mac challenged, wanting desperately to believe him. "If I'm at Phoenix, then why am I tied up?"

"Matty's idea," Bozer replied bitterly, making it clear that he was not a fan of the decision any more than he was. "Said you'd run off if she didn't. Open your eyes, Mac; you're safe. Trust me."

"No," Mac refused tearfully, shaking his head as his heart monitor beeped in time with his racing heart. "If I open my eyes, I'll wake up, and you'll be gone. I don't...I don't want you to go away..."

"Mac, you're not dreaming," Bozer insisted. The traumatized agent flinched when he felt him grasp his right hand between both of his. "I'm not going anywhere. We're at the Phoenix. Open your eyes and see for yourself. I'm right here."

Mac hesitated, absolutely terrified at the prospect of opening his eyes, truly believing that if he did so he'd find himself back in his own private hell. But he trusted Bozer, so, slowly, he pried his eyes open, and felt nearly debilitating relief wash over him when his lifelong friend did not disappear. Bozer smiled down at him, glancing up and watching his heart rate slow to more normal levels.

"Boze..." the young man smiled slightly, blinking drowsily as he slowly let his muscles relax.

"Man, you are so lucky I was coming up for my lunch break," the tech laughed, grabbing a chair as, behind him, Taryn went to go grab Doctor Emerson. "You could have really hurt yourself, thrashing around like that."

"Jack," Mac struggled to clear his thoughts. "Where's Jack? What happened? Did...did he make it out of surgery?"

"I just talked to Matty before I came up," Bozer told him, ever aware of how Mac was clinging to his hand. "He made it out of surgery. He's stable. They don't know if there's any brain or organ damage yet; he lost a lot of blood. He's been out for a few hours now and hasn't woken up yet. They're trying to get him transferred here before the end of the day. No guarantees, but they're doing their best."

"I want to see him," Mac's voice was pleading as he shifted on his bed.

"And that's why Matty opted for the restraints," Bozer sighed. "You need to stay here, Mac. You're safer and better off here. Riley is with Jack right now, and Simmons and Kyser are there, too, to keep an eye on him."

"He's not safe," Mac argued, his words carrying an edge of fear as he pulled against his restraints again. "He's not safe, Boze...Asmara knows; he's...he's gonna come after him...he's gonna kill him..."

"And he'd have to go through Simmons and Kyser to do it," Bozer countered with a slight smile. "Mac, he's safe. So are you. Just relax, man. It's over."

"No, it's not," Mac refused. "It's not over. It's not over until he's caught. Jack's not safe until then...none of us are safe until then..."

"You're both as safe as you can possibly be," Bozer insisted, his brow furrowed in worry.

Mac quite clearly didn't believe him, but didn't have time to protest further before Doctor Emerson walked in. The doctor gave him a smile, but Mac didn't return it, not in the mood for smiles.

"Mac," the doctor greeted him. "How're you feeling?"

"I'd be better if someone would let me out of these," Mac told him almost dangerously.

"Wish I could," Emerson gave a helpless shrug. "Director Webber's orders. We can't have you moving much; those wrists of yours still haven't been set, and you tore three stitches last night in your leg, one in your hip, and two more in your chest. You keep it up and you may never heal properly. And you seriously need to stay on those antibiotics; that infection is pretty nasty. You stay here, you let your body heal and let your immune system get some backup; you leave, and the stress alone could take you down."

"I've...I've been a prisoner for long enough," Mac's voice shook when he spoke, his hand tightening around Bozer's even has he tried to outwardly hide his discomfort.

"I agree," Emerson nodded solemnly. "But it's not up to me. Matty thinks that if you were released you'd do everything in your power to leave here and go see Jack, and I agree with that assessment."

Mac turned away from him, almost pouting, and Emerson let out a sigh, deciding to just do is check and leave as quickly as possible. He went through the usual steps, checking his patient's reflexes, ocular response to light, eye movements, heart and lungs, and wound dressings, then made notes on his chart.

"I'm going to send you for another CT scan," he announced after a moment or two.

"Why?" Bozer asked, sounding nervous.

"Just a precaution," Emerson assured him. "His heart rate is a little high and his blood pressure is still a little low, despite the transfusions, and with as much bruising as he's sustained, I can't really tell if there's still any internal bleeding. And with the painkillers he's on, I doubt he can really feel any specific pain, can you, Mac?"

"No," Mac admitted.

"Thought so," Emerson gave a slight smile. "You may need another surgery if I find any remaining bleeds. But hey, at least now you won't be bored while you wait for Jack."

Mac just scoffed, clearly unamused, as Bozer reluctantly released his hand, pulling his ringing phone from his pocket and answering it.

"Hello?"

"Bozer, it's Matty," his boss sounded happy for the first time in a long time. "Put me on speaker."

Bozer followed her instructions, putting the call on speaker. "What's up, Matty?"

"Just got a call from Kyser," Matty reported. "The good news is, Jack's awake. Doctor Parker has found no evidence of brain damage and very minimal organ damage. He'll be on the ventilator for about a week because the bullet hit his lung, but they're confident he will make a full recovery. Doctor Parker made a point to note that Jack is one of the luckiest men she's ever encountered to have survived a hit like that so well."

Mac went nearly limp with relief in his bed, temporarily forgetting how to speak, it seemed, so Bozer spoke for him.

"Thank God," the agent sighed. "When is he going to get here?"

"A few hours," Matty replied. "Kyser's working on the transfer now."

"Matty," Mac spoke up after a moment. "You said you had good news...so what's the bad news?"

"Did I say I had bad news?" Matty answered his question with a question, and Mac saw right through it.

"Matty, just tell me," the wounded agent groaned, not in the mood to dance around the subject.

The director was quiet for a few seconds. "Charlie Hill, Victoria and Selam's son, has refused protective custody. He's decided to go back to school under his real name and finish his degree."

"He can't do that," Mac gave a start upon hearing the news. "Best case scenario, Asmara comes after him and takes him. Worst case, he kills him to get back at Victoria!"

"It's out of my control," Matty told him helplessly. "He's an adult; he can make these decisions on his own. Legally, I can't stop him. I can put a tail on him for the time being, but that's not a long-term solution; I can't justify the use of resources forever."

"That kid's gonna get himself killed," Mac growled in frustration.

"Maybe," Matty agreed. "But there's nothing we can do about it."

Mac shook his head, an anguished look on his face. After a few moments, he spoke again.

"Hey, Matty, did...is Victoria a teacher, now?" he asked slowly, his voice shaking and the color draining from his face, finally remembering that he hadn't told Matty the rest of his dream in the middle of all the confusion surrounding Jack.

"Yeah," Matty confirmed slowly. "Why do you ask?"

Mac looked over at the clock on the wall. It was almost one o'clock.

"Asmara said he was going after her students," he told her breathlessly, causing Bozer and Emerson to look at each other in horror. "You've gotta evacuate that school."

"Are you sure about this?" Matty asked, hesitation in her voice.

"Of course I'm sure!" Mac snapped, only to wince at the pain that flared up in retaliation. "Have I been wrong yet?"

He hadn't, in spite of his somewhat erratic behavior, so Matty quickly promised to do as he'd said before hanging up.

"Okay, now just relax, Mac," Emerson advised. "You've done everything you can do. Now, just sit back and let me get these scans done, okay? By the time we're done Jack should be arriving."

"Fine," Mac agreed, surprising his companions. Before he continued, he pulled the strap connecting his right wrist restraint free from its anchor point underneath his narrow bed, having been working at it all during their call with Matty, causing Emerson's eyes to widen and Bozer to smile with something almost like pride. As he began freeing his left wrist from its restraint, as calm as ever, he finally finished, "but no more restraints."

* * *

Jack opened his eyes slowly, his head throbbing dully, his whole body aching and feeling a faint shooting pain in his chest. He wasn't all that surprised to find himself in the hospital; he was a regular at medical. He was a little surprised, however, to not recognize the room. He wasn't at Phoenix. It took him a minute to remember what happened, to remember the white-hot pain as the bullet tore through him and the shock he felt as he fell to the ground, the desperation he felt as he'd dragged himself to the bathroom, but when he did, he marveled at the fact that he was still alive at all. Knowing that the hospital was closer to his apartment than the Phoenix made him realize that he must have been in really bad shape for Kyser to direct him here. Noticing that he wasn't breathing on his own and had a breathing tube feeding into his neck through a hole in the front of it only strengthened that idea. Looking around, his eyes fell on Riley, leaning forward to rest her head on the edge of his bed, asleep with her hand in his. He smiled slightly and squeezed her hand, which was enough to rouse her from her slumber. She blinked and yawned, rubbing her eyes sleepily.

"You look like hell, kid," the former Delta commented, his quiet, raspy voice making her jump and look at him.

"Jack!" the young analyst couldn't hide her relief, reaching up and pressing the call button on his headboard. "Thank God. How're you feeling; you okay?"

"Pretty good for someone...who just took a shot...to the heart," Jack smirked slightly, having to time his words with the ventilator. "How's Mac?"

Before Riley—who was grinning at this point—could respond, the door opened, and a woman in in deep red scrubs came into the room, Kyser and Simmons on her heels.

"Jack," Kyser smiled brightly, seeing his old friend's eyes open. "Good to see you, man."

"You scared us back there," Simmons chimed in.

"Sorry," Jack chuckled quietly, grimacing at the pain the action caused.

"Mr. Dalton," the woman—Doctor Parker, according to the embroidered name on her shirt—smiled at him. "I'm Doctor Parker; I performed your surgery."

"Well, thank you very much," Jack said with sincerity under his humor. "You did a bang-up job on that."

"Do you remember what happened?" the doctor asked, her eyes searching his face, evaluating him quietly, watching his every movement.

"Yeah, I got shot," Jack laughed quietly.

"No other gaps in your memory?" she pressed. "Any persistent headaches, confusion...?"

"Headache, yes, although I dunno 'bout 'persistent,'" Jack admitted, waiting for the ventilator to fill his lungs again before continuing. "No on the confusion. Why?"

"You lost a lot of blood both before and during surgery," Parker explained. "The lack of oxygen may have led to some brain damage, although I didn't see any evidence of that on your scans. You do have some slight organ damage, but it's nothing to be concerned about; your body will heal it on its own."

"Well, I feel relatively great, Doc," Jack assured her. "This machine is freaking me out a little, though."

"It's just temporary," the surgeon assured him. "Until your lung has had some time to heal. You should be weaned off of it within a week. Now, I understand that you're requesting a transfer, so, since I don't see any immediate signs of damage, I'll sign off on that, but I do want to wait an hour or so, make sure nothing goes wrong."

"That's fine," Jack agreed somewhat reluctantly, too tired to argue.

"Can I get you anything in the meantime?" Parker asked. Jack shook his head slightly, so she continued, "Alright. Let me know if that changes."

"Will do," Jack promised, watching her leave. When she was gone, he turned to his friends and repeated his question, "How's Mac?"

"Freaking out about you," Kyser sighed. "But he's alright."

"Katherine is not, though," Simmons told him. "Her son has decided to forego protective custody, go back to school, regardless of the threat."

"What?" Jack gawked in horror.

"She asked you to call him when you were awake," Simmons continued, pulling out his phone and dialing the number he'd been given. "Guess she thinks maybe you could talk some sense into him."

Jack took the phone from him without hesitation, bringing the device up to his ear with a shaking hand as it rang. Charlie picked up on the third ring.

"Hello?"

"Charlie, it's Jack Dalton," the former Delta began. "Remember me, from your house?"

"My mom ask you to call?" Charlie sounded almost annoyed when he spoke.

"You're damn right she did," Jack confirmed. He waited for his next intake of breath before pressing on. "She's worried about you, and rightfully so. Charlie...I know this whole thing sucks, but just trust...me, it's all necessary. This guy wouldn't hesitate to kill you; it doesn't matter...that you're his son. He's going to come after you."

"Let him," Charlie scoffed. "I'm not going to let my whole future fall to shit because of something that happened before I was even born."

"You're not just putting yourself in danger, you know," Jack argued. "He could use you to get to your family. He's not...someone to take lightly, Charlie...I'm in a hospital right now on a...ventilator because of him. You're going to get yourself hurt or worse."

"I don't care," Jack couldn't help but recoil in surprise at his words. "I'm not going to give up everything I've ever wanted just to run and hide. If he finds me, then, hey; at least you guys will know where he is. Now, I've gotta go to class; goodbye, Mr. Dalton."

"Hey, now, Charlie—" Jack began, but Charlie hung up before he could finish, and the former Delta groaned before hanging up as well, handing the phone back to Simmons as a pit settled in his stomach.

In Stanford, California, Charlie sat on a bench on the main quad, letting out a slow breath as he put his phone away. Despite his bravado, he was absolutely terrified to be away from the protection Phoenix had provided. But, it was the fastest way he could think of to get his family's lives back on track. They needed to find Selam; why not use a little bait? He knew that the Phoenix would not approve of it, so he kept up his completely stupid and insane plan between him and his sister. If it worked, they'd find out eventually.

"Charlie!" He looked up when he heard his girlfriend, Emma Tsao, call his name. She was standing by the door to the human biology building. "C'mon; we're gonna be late!"

"Coming!" Charlie promised, getting up and grabbing his backpack, jogging after her. There was no sense in worrying about something that may never happen. Until Asmara showed himself, he may as well carry on.

* * *

 **Sorry this took so long, but...I mean, it's also very long, so that's good. Anyway, I know there still wasn't a whole lot of action, but y'all, we get to see phase 3 next and I am so excited! Shouldn't take quite as long as this one did; yes, part of the reason this was so delayed was the resuming of classes, but I also just enjoy writing the intense stuff more, so I tend to write it faster, whereas I tend to drag my feet through the slower (though, I know, JUST as necessary) parts. Similar to why I was able to write over 7,000 words of fanfiction in the weekend I was supposed to be writing a mere 2,000 word history paper. Fanfiction is fun; history is not. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this chapter's angst and and such. Gonna have to have a bit of a time jump next chapter (another reason this took so long; didn't want to divide it up, but had a lot to cover before the jump) to get the boys mostly back up and running. Y'all I'm PUMPED for this!**


	25. Charlie

Roughly four months later...

* * *

Charlie Duncan was absolutely exhausted by the time he made it back to the apartment he shared with his girlfriend. He'd had his biochemistry lab until after eight thirty, and then he'd gone to a study group for one of his other classes to prepare for the test the following week, so it was after eleven by the time he finally came back from campus.

"Emma, you up?" he called quietly, locking both the deadbolt and the chain on the door behind him and hanging up his jacket and keys as he dropped his backpack by the wall, electing not to turn on the lights for fear of waking his girlfriend if she'd fallen asleep on the couch while studying, something that had become a habit of hers. In the four months since he'd left the safety of Phoenix protection, things had been extremely quiet; he was almost comfortable again, settling back into his routines, although there was still a voice at the back of his mind that reminded him to keep his guard up. Usually, anyway.

"Em?" the college junior called again, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom. The living room appeared empty, but there was something on the coffee table, so he switched on the light and walked over to it. It was a note, with his phone sitting beside it—he'd forgotten to grab it before he left for class that morning. The device had no charge left in it, so he ignored it for the moment and grabbed the note instead.

 _Charlie—_

 _My mom called and Alice was in some kind of accident. I didn't get many details but she's in the hospital so I'm going home. Call me when you get back._

— _Emma_

"Oh, God," Charlie muttered, putting the note down and grabbing his phone as he searched for a charger. Alice was Emma's older sister, and the two were nearly inseparable. He scrambled to plug his phone in, and willed it to charge faster as he waited to be able to turn it on. He sighed as he put the device down, rubbing his tired eyes. As if this weekend could get any more stressful.

Just as his phone screen lit up, telling him it was ready to use, a voice behind him made him jump and spin around.

"Hello, Charlie," it was the young man's first look at his father, and his blood ran cold immediately. He took a step back from him and almost fell over the end table on which his phone was charging, steadying himself on its surface with his right hand. "It's good to finally meet you."

"You stay away from me," Charlie warned, though his voice shook as he looked around for a weapon or an escape. The front door was about ten feet to his right. If he could make just make it there...

"I know you must have heard some terrible things about me," Asmara sighed, taking a step closer.

"Stay _back_!" Charlie ordered, still sounding as terrified as he felt. His right hand, which was still on the tabletop behind him, started feeling around for something to defend himself, his eyes locked on the intruder in front of him. Asmara stopped in his tracks and let out a breath.

"I don't want to fight with you, Charlie," he said with what sounded like sincerity in his voice. "I really don't. I just want to talk."

"I don't want to talk to you," Charlie growled. "You're a murderer! A terrorist! You hurt my mom! You tried to kill her at least twice! You stay away from me!"

"Charlie, you don't—" Asmara broke off and gave a grunt when Charlie grabbed the lamp from the end table, ripped it free of the wall, and threw it as hard as he could at the man across from him. The improvised weapon hit Asmara in the chest and shattered onto the floor, making him stumble back, and the young student didn't hesitate, sprinting for the door as his father started to recover from the unexpected action. He grabbed his keys and tried to open the door, his heart leaping into his throat when he remembered he'd locked it. He fumbled with the lock and started to undo the chain when Asmara wrapped his arm around his neck, pulling him back from the exit as Charlie fought to get away, thrashing in the older man's strong grip.

"Stop it, Charlie," Asmara growled in his ear as the boy pulled at his arm, throwing his weight around and driving them both into walls, trying to get the man to let go. "I don't want to hurt you; stop fighting me!"

Charlie couldn't reply, but hell if he was going to just lie down and take it. He kept fighting as hard as he could, hoping one of his neighbors would hear him and call for help. Eventually, Asmara grew impatient and adjusted his grip on his son's throat slightly, then tightened it. Charlie felt himself start to panic as he saw darkness start to encroach on his vision, the sleeper hold doing its job. He reached back and desperately started pushing at his father's face, trying to shove him away, but it was no use. In less than a minute, he was unconscious, and Asmara released his grip, gently lowering his son to the floor.

"One day, son," he sighed, a little breathless as he patted Charlie's chest twice. "One day, you'll understand. I'll make you understand. I just hope I didn't find you too late."

* * *

Jack woke up with a start, unsure what had roused him until he heard another breathy whimper from Mac's bed and saw his shadowy form toss and turn. The former Delta got up from his air mattress with a grunt, blinking the sleep from his eyes and stepping over to his partner's bedside. He grabbed Mac's shoulder and shook him gently, his voice gravelly with sleep as he spoke.

"Mac," he hissed, the sound barely above a whisper. "Mac, wake up. C'mon, buddy, wake up. Mac!"

At last, the younger agent jolted awake, and, still reeling from his nightmare, started to try and fight Jack off. His partner was expecting this, though, and caught his arms easily.

"Hey, hey, hey, Mac! Mac, it's me!" he soothed patiently, his voice still quiet. "It's Jack! I'm right here, brother; it's okay."

Mac stopped fighting quickly as he recognized Jack's voice, breathing hard, and relaxed in his bed, his relief at seeing his partner—or the vague shape of him, outlined by the dim light coming in through his window—instead of Asmara or Tiago plainly evident. Jack slowly released him, leaning over to turn on the bedside lamp. Their sleepovers had been going on since they'd both been released from the hospital. At the time, they'd justified it to themselves and their team as carpooling to the doctor and PT—"We're saving the planet, Matty; you should be thanking us."—but as time went on, and they both started having appointments less and less frequently, it was a lot harder to disguise. Nobody said anything about it—and, to their credit, they were actually only staying over with each other twice a week or less, now; they really were getting better—but they were both certain that the whole team knew exactly why Jack so rarely left Mac's side. Bozer knew the whole time, of course; it was hard to hide nightmares from someone who slept less than ten feet down the hall. It seemed as though every time he closed his eyes, Mac found himself back with Asmara. It wasn't all that much better for Jack; his dreams were haunted with images of Mac screaming. They both had a long way to go, and they weren't helped by the fact that Asmara seemed to have dropped off the face of the Earth. Even Mac's tip about the school hadn't panned out; it was like he'd just vanished.

"That's it, Mac; just breathe," Jack encouraged, sitting down on the edge of his air mattress with one leg pulled up and the other straight out in front of him, his back to the door as he faced his partner. Mac sat up as well, swinging his legs over the side of the bed and leaning forward on his knees. "You okay?"

Mac gave a small nod, though he didn't seem so sure, as he refused to meet Jack's eyes.

"Anything you want to talk about?"

Then, Mac just looked at him, his eyes carrying a resounding "no" without him having to say a word.

"Didn't think so," Jack sighed. It was hard enough for Mac to make it through his mandatory sessions with Doctor Pasco, the Phoenix shrink; he didn't need to suffer through a session with Jack, too.

"Think you'll be going back to sleep tonight?" he asked after a moment or two. Mac looked over at his clock. It was just after 4:30 in the morning. After debating for a few seconds, he shook his head.

"Okay," Jack shrugged, getting to his feet with a grunt. "Then we might as well get going; c'mon."

He held out a hand in Mac's direction, and the younger agent sighed, taking his hand and letting him pull him to his feet. He whimpered slightly as pain twinged in his leg and hip; while his wounds had healed and the scars were thankfully not as bad as he thought they'd be, the motion of sitting down and standing up made the old injuries sharp again, if only for a moment. Doctor Emerson assured him that that would go away in time, but for now, all it did was remind him of everything that happened to him.

"You thinkin' bacon?" Jack's voice snapped him from his thoughts as he watched the former Delta squeeze some hand lotion onto his hands and start working it into the marks on his wrists in an effort to help the scars fade faster. He offered some to him, and Mac accepted, rubbing his own light red scars. "I could really use some bacon right now..."

"Bacon sounds awesome," Mac said with a chuckle, beyond grateful to have him there to keep him distracted.

"Alright," Jack grinned, moving towards the door to the hallway. Both men were surprised to see the hall light already on, and Jack's stomach growled audibly when the scent of bacon wafted in from the kitchen. The two agents exchanged glances, then headed out into the kitchen, finding Bozer standing at the stove, his back to them and his headphones on as he flipped the bacon he was cooking.

"Should we say something?" Jack blinked, sitting down at the peninsula.

"And scare him while he's got a pan full of hot grease?" Mac raised an eyebrow at him. "No thank you."

"So what, we just wait?" Jack made a face as he shrugged his shoulders.

"Why not?" Mac shrugged, grabbing the seat beside him. A few seconds later, Bozer turned off the stove and turned around to grab the plate he'd placed on the countertop, nearly jumping out of his skin when he saw his two friends watching him expectantly.

"Don't do that!" Bozer snapped as Mac and Jack laughed. He took off his headphones and put them on the countertop, one hand over his heart. "I'm supposed to have a heart attack _after_ eating the bacon, not before!"

"Sorry, Boze," Mac apologized through his laughter. "It was too tempting."

Bozer scoffed at him, shaking his head and picking up the plate and removing his bacon from the pan. "What are you two even doing up?"

"We were gonna ask you the same thing," Jack sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "Unless we all started craving bacon at four in the morning."

"Just couldn't sleep," Bozer shrugged, handing the plate of bacon to Jack without even thinking about it and returning to the stove to make some more. Jack grinned and grabbed a piece, taking a bite. "Couldn't tell ya why; your guess is as good as mine. Gave up trying about twenty minutes ago."

"Well, I'm glad you did, because I woke up craving bacon," Jack chuckled, making Mac crack a smile. "And you know what they say: the best food is the food you don't have to make yourself."

"I'm pretty sure that's not a saying, Jack," his partner shook his head as he stood up. He started putting his shoes on, and Bozer and Jack exchanged glances.

"Where you going, Mac?" his roommate asked.

"Gonna go for a walk," the young agent sighed. "I wanna clear my head."

"You don't want any bacon?" Jack raised an eyebrow, and Mac laughed slightly.

"I'll grab some later," he assured him. "It's a little too early anyway."

"It is never too early for bacon, my friend," Jack told him seriously, as though he were offering sage advice.

"I'll keep that in mind," Mac rolled his eyes and smirked. "I'll be back later."

"Hold on," Jack sighed, getting up. "Walk sounds like fun; I'll go with you."

Mac opened his mouth to protest, then closed it, knowing that Jack was just being protective. He'd suffered at Asmara's hands just as much as he did—maybe not physically, but Mac wasn't blind to how much the ordeal had affected him. And with Asmara still out there, likely still seeking revenge, he wasn't willing to let him go out unprotected. It felt like an overreaction sometimes, but he'd decided to just let it happen; Jack was trying to cope, too. The younger agent waited patiently as Jack pulled his shoes on, and when they were both ready to go, he opened the front door.

"Save us some bacon, Boze," Jack ordered as he followed Mac out onto the porch.

"No promises!" his partner's roommate called after him, prompting Jack to roll his eyes, though he didn't reply. Instead, he and Mac started walking, turning left at the end of his driveway.

"You sure you don't want to talk about anything?" the former Delta asked after several minutes of silence.

"Nope," Mac shook his head, swallowing hard as he tried to forget about his nightmare. "Not a thing."

Jack looked down, his jaw twitching. After another moment, he spoke again, "Mind if I say something?"

"Sure," Mac shrugged, looking at him in surprise. They hadn't actually talked about what happened much; they'd both wanted to forget it as much as possible.

"I just..." Jack let out a sigh, pausing to find his words. "I should have said this way sooner, back when we got you home, but...I'm sorry, Mac."

"For what?" Mac looked at him in genuine confusion, unable to think of a reason his partner may need to apologize.

"I promised you I wouldn't tell Asmara anything," Jack reminded him grimly. "If I'd kept that promise, we never would have gotten separated, and Phoenix would have found us. You never would have ended up in the convention center if it wasn't for me. We could have gotten out of there together."

"Yeah, or Asmara could have killed us both as soon as Phoenix showed up," Mac pointed out. "Jack, there's no way you could have known what was going to happen. And if the roles were reversed and he did to you what he was doing to me...I would have said anything I needed to to make it stop. I can't blame you for doing what I would have done."

"Because of me, you had to go through that alone," Jack argued. "You said it yourself; pretty much the only way what happened could have gotten any worse was if you were alone. And I did that to you. I'm sorry, Mac."

"Okay, well, your apology is both unnecessary and accepted," Mac told him. "Really, Jack; I don't blame you for anything that happened to me. I never did."

Jack didn't say a word, letting out a slow breath. Hearing those words from his partner's mouth made him feel lighter, like a weight had been lifted off his shoulders. The two continued their walk in silence, letting the cool air wake them up. By the time they started to circle back around to the house, lights were coming on in people's windows as the occupants started getting ready for work and school.

"I don't get it," Mac muttered at last, frowning as Jack looked over at him.

"What?" Jack tilted his head slightly.

"He was so determined," the younger agent continued almost absently. "So focused. So meticulous. So dead set on making us—all of us—suffer. So where is he? Why would he just drop off the map? What game is he playing?"

"All excellent questions, brother," Jack sighed. "And I wish I had answers. Best guess, though? We beat him. His convention center plan failed. We got you back. His plan to kill me failed. He was not expecting to lose, so he ran, hid away to regroup. It was a victory for us."

"Or, the wait was always a part of the plan, and things are about to go down in the worst way," Mac countered, his expression grim.

"I liked you better when you were an optimist," Jack teased, although his eyes showed his worry.

Mac's jaw twitched, wanting to reassure him but his heart not in it. Jack's concern grew, and he reached out and grabbed Mac's arm, stopping him in the middle of the sidewalk.

"Hey," he said firmly, trying to catch his partner's eyes as he grabbed hold of his shoulders. "Mac, listen to me: I know how bad things got for you in there. I know you were scared, and I know I wasn't there for you—my fault or not, it's true; I wasn't. But we still won. You won. You beat him. You're the reason the convention center plan failed. You're the reason I didn't bleed out in my apartment—if you hadn't sounded the alarm with Matty, that sniper would have gotten me when I got up that morning, and no one would have known what happened until it was too late. I know you must have felt so helpless in there, but you never were. We beat him before, and when he finally surfaces, we'll beat him again. And this time, you're not gonna have to do anything alone. I'm not leaving you again, Mac. You got that?"

Mac gave a slight nod, a small smile on his face, and Jack grinned.

"Good," the former Delta approved, letting go of him. "Now c'mon; let's go get some bacon."

* * *

When Charlie started to come to again, his head was pounding, and the corners of his eyes twitched as he groaned, shifting his body underneath him and letting his head fall to the side. It took him a moment to realize that his hands were restrained in front of him, but when the realization hit him, he forced his eyes open, blinking his vision clear. A pair of handcuffs bound his hands together, the metal chain looped around one of the vertical metal loops of a radiator with his hands fed around the back in such a way that he couldn't hope to bring them closer to himself. He was sitting on a dirty hardwood floor, tucked into the corner, and a strip of tape covered his mouth. The young man felt panic surge through him, and he yanked on his wrists in an attempt to free himself, only succeeding in sending shooting pain through his arms. He gave a muffled yelp and looked around. The room he was in looked like some kind of outdated office. There was a desk about seven feet to his left, the leather chair behind it looking worn and faded. Several computers—all of these looking very new—were set up on its surface. The two cloth chairs in front of it were threadbare and torn in a couple spots. The window behind the desk was blocked out by newspapers, allowing some light to filter in, although Charlie could tell that it was artificial light, like from a street lamp, and not the sun. The was a door behind the desk, too, on the wall to Charlie's left, and there was also a door on the same wall as the radiator. He was alone for the time being, but he knew that wouldn't last for too much longer, and his stomach churned at the thought.

As if summoned, Asmara opened the door on the wall with the radiator, looking over at him and seeming almost surprised to see him awake.

"Morning, Charlie," the older man grinned down at him. "I'm glad you're up; I was almost afraid I'd really hurt you."

Charlie tried to shoot back a retort, but the tape muffled his words, and Asmara chuckled. The sound wasn't mocking, though, to the college student's surprise; it was almost nervous. Asmara walked over and set the coffee in his hand down on the desk, then grabbed one of the cloth chairs and dragged it over until it was just a few feet from his son, sitting down to face him, studying him carefully.

"I'm sorry about the handcuffs and the tape," the terrorist said at last. "But I couldn't let you run off before I got the chance to talk to you."

Again, Charlie's reply was muffled by the tape, and Asmara sighed.

"If I take that off of you, are you going to behave?" he asked evenly. Charlie hesitated, still breathing hard, and nodded. Asmara reached out to him slowly, trying not to startle him, and peeled the tape off of his mouth as gently as he could.

"Where the hell am I?" Charlie demanded with a growl, his chest heaving and eyes wild with mistrust and fear.

"Somewhere safe," Asmara promised. "No one's going to hurt you, Charlie."

"Yeah, well, if my well-being is so important to you then how about you let me go?" the boy suggested furiously, pressing his right shoulder into the wall behind him, trying to put as much distance between himself and Asmara as he possibly could.

"Charlie, please; don't be difficult," Asmara rubbed his eyes wearily.

"You kidnapped me and tried to kill my mom while my sister and I were upstairs," Charlie snapped. "Why the fuck wouldn't I be difficult?"

Anger sparked in Asmara's eyes, and his hand twitched up, as though he thought about striking him. Charlie flinched back, tensing up to prepare for the hit, but it never came. Instead, Selam forced himself to take a breath, "Is that any way to talk to your father?"

"My dad's name is Peter Hill," Charlie snarled, still angry in spite of his fear. "You're nobody to me."

Asmara looked at him almost sadly, and Charlie couldn't help but be surprised.

"Oh, Charlie," the boy's father sighed. "You don't know the whole story. Your mother has so corrupted you; I'm so sorry I wasn't there to protect you from that."

Charlie just scoffed at him, his words too ridiculous to refute, and Selam shook his head.

"One day, my son, you will understand," the terrorist promised, though there was something almost like a threat under the words, making goosebumps break out on Charlie's skin. "Until then, I'll keep you here, away from corrupting influences. One day, you'll thank me."

"I highly fucking doubt it," Charlie spat. This time, Asmara did not stop himself, and he backhanded the young man across the face, making him cry out as his cheek began to sting and his heart started beating even faster. As his chest heaved and he tried to calm himself down from the blow, Asmara reached out and grabbed his jaw, turning his head to face him.

"It seems your mother failed to teach you common decency and respect," the terrorist's voice was icy and even, and it made chills shoot down his spine. "So allow me to pick up the slack. While you are here you are to address me with the utmost respect; understand? That means none of that smart mouth and none of those cuss words. Am I clear?"

Charlie didn't answer, his vocal cords paralyzed by his terror, and Asmara's eyes flashed. He let go of Charlie's jaw only to grab his throat and pin him against the wall behind him. The young man's fear only grew, pulling against the handcuffs in a wild attempt to defend himself.

"It also means answering when someone asks you a question," Selam snarled. "Now, am I clear?"

Charlie, unable to speak past the hand on his throat, forced himself to nod, and Asmara released him, allowing him to gasp for air.

"Good," his father smirked at him. "Maybe I can save you after all."

The premed student just stared up at him, horrified and shaking with fear. Asmara leaned back with a sigh.

"Well, I've gotta go pick up a friend of mine," he announced casually, as though he hadn't just attacked his son. "Once he gets here, the fun is _really_ gonna begin. So sit tight; I'll be back soon."

With this, the terrorist picked up the tape that he'd saved on the edge of the radiator and leaned towards his son. Charlie barely had time utter a quick "No!" and try to pull away before the strong adhesive sealed his mouth shut once more, muffling the rest of his protests. Asmara gave him a small half-smile, then stood up and left the room, leaving Charlie alone with the silence.

* * *

 **And here it finally is! Sorry for having to time jump, but it really was necessary. And, again, sorry this took so long. I really hope it was worth it. I'm so excited to show you guys this plan; I can't even tell you. Phase 3 officially starts next chapter! And here...we...go!**


	26. Tiago

Simmons pulled Tiago out of the interrogation room, his pull none too gentle, not caring about causing him discomfort or even pain after all he'd done. The terrorist's "day"—and Simmons used the term loosely, since Tiago's perception of a day by that point was likely non-existent; they kept varying how long he was with them, never letting him pick up on any patterns—was over, and Simmons, Ramirez, Kyser, and Cook's replacement, Grant Wyatt, were escorting him back to his solitary confinement. None of them spoke as Mac's torturer shuffled along between them, shackled hand and foot, his vision eliminated by the black bag over his head. Before long, they'd loaded him into the armored transport, Ramirez behind the wheel, Kyser up front with him, and Simmons and Wyatt in the back with their prisoner, buckling the seatbelt across his lap to keep him in place during their journey. Simmons then closed the back doors and pounded on the top of the vehicle twice to tell Ramirez that they were ready. The transport started to move, and Wyatt sat down beside their prisoner while Simmons sat opposite him, both of them with their guns at the ready, never once relaxing around him. The small bulletproof windows on either side of the vehicle allowed enough light to let them see his every move, and they were watching carefully. The small opening that would allow them to communicate with their colleagues in the front seat was closed, sealing them off from the front seats.

"Por favor," their captive spoke up from under his hood, sounding exhausted. "Que horas são?"

"About half past time for you to shut the fuck up," Wyatt replied irritably. He was fluent in Portuguese, which was part of the reason he was selected for this particular team. "You shouldn't care anyway; it's not like you've got anywhere to be."

Simmons gave a scoffing laugh, causing Wyatt to smirk at him. Tiago offered an exasperated sigh, which only made his guards laugh more.

About thirty minutes into their ninety minute journey, Wyatt and Simmons heard muffled yelling from the front seat, and they just had time to look at each other before their armored truck was T-boned on Simmons' side. The impact sent the team leader to the floor of the truck with a shout, his head spinning and body suddenly aching, but it wasn't over; the force that hit them kept coming, and before long, they were tipping. Wyatt braced himself as best he could and Simmons scrambled to find something—anything to hold onto, but he was unsuccessful. When the truck tipped, he slammed his head into the bench upon which Wyatt and Tiago sat, making him see stars.

The older man struggled to get up, groaning in pain. He reached up to touch his head and winced, his hand coming away bloody.

"Wyatt," Simmons gasped, worry in his voice. "Wyatt, are you okay?"

His colleague didn't answer, and Simmons went cold, his stomach churning as he forced his eyes all the way open and pushed himself to his knees, looking over the bench. Tiago was still tethered in place, but Wyatt was up near the ceiling, flat on his back, blood under his body from an unknown wound.

"Wyatt!" the team leader cried in horror, scrambling over the bench unsteadily and moving to his colleague's side, completely ignoring Tiago as he groaned in his seat, shaking his teammate urgently. "Wyatt, hey, c'mon, man; wake up! Wyatt!"

The younger man's dark eyes fluttered, and he moaned, face tightening as his head rolled.

"Hey, Wyatt; you okay?" Simmons sounded relieved to see him conscious.

"Yeah..." Wyatt's voice was gravelly, but he pried his eyes open momentarily. "Yeah, I'm good...You?"

"I feel great," Simmons assured him, well aware that he was lying. He turned his attention to Tiago almost unwillingly.

"Hey," he snapped, his voice a lot stronger than he felt. "Douchebag. You okay?"

Tiago groaned under his hood and gave a thumbs up. Simmons just scoffed.

"Good," he grumbled, knowing that he wouldn't have really cared too much either way. The team leader got unsteadily to his feet, making his way towards the divider that separated them from their colleagues up front, falling more than once along the way. Before he could say anything or move to open the small hatch in the divider, they heard more shouts and then gunshots. Wyatt pried his eyes open all the way and lifted his head, looking up in concern.

"Shit," Simmons muttered as, behind him, Tiago started laughing.

"Você está morto," he mumbled from under his hood as Wyatt struggled into a sitting position, drawing a sharp breath, his face contorting in pain.

"You shut up," Simmons snapped at the prisoner, not quite sure what he said but knowing it was probably rude as he moved back towards Wyatt. He could see where the blood was coming from now; his left arm was bent at a grotesque angle, and the bone was likely broken through the skin under his sleeve. Simmons grit his teeth, helping him get upright.

"What do we do?" Wyatt asked, trying to block out the intense pain in his arm.

Simmons hesitated, glancing towards the partition, hearing more shouting and more gunfire, and let out a quick breath.

"We follow protocol," he concluded at last, grabbing his gun and reattaching it to the strap across his body, getting it ready to fire. Unable to use his larger weapon due to his arm, Wyatt mimicked him and pulled his 9mm from his thigh holster. "We stay with the package, and we shoot anyone who tries to take it. Kyser and Ramirez will be fine."

Wyatt didn't seem all that convinced, but he nodded anyway, trying to get into as defensible a position as he was able.

Up front, Ramirez was trying to untangle himself from his harness, hanging from it over Kyser. The field medic had his ankle stuck under the seat and was desperately trying to pull it free as bullets pounded the truck from all sides. When Ramirez was finally free, he stood on the console between them.

"Kyser, you okay?" he demanded, having to yell to be heard over the gunfire. His colleague was bleeding from a gash in the right side of his head, but looked surprisingly alert.

"I'm good," Kyser assured him, trying to free his ankle from under the seat, growling with frustration.

"Hand me my gun," Ramirez ordered. His weapon had fallen down by his friend when they tipped. Kyser, still gasping, handed him the weapon, and Ramirez tightened his helmet strap under his chin before throwing open his door. Standing straight up gave him just enough of a sightline to see what they were dealing with; there were roughly ten or fifteen assailants, all with automatic weapons. Upon seeing him emerge, they started aiming for him, and he ducked back down.

"I count ten or fifteen bad guys," Ramirez reported. "You call it in; I'm gonna get out."

"Eric, don't be stupid!" Kyser snapped. "You're gonna get torn apart if you go out there!"

"And if I don't go out there, Simmons and Wyatt are sitting ducks for fifteen of these assholes!" Ramirez shot back. "You got a better plan?"

"Just stay put," Kyser gasped, grunting as he continued to try and free his trapped ankle. "They can't get into the back; Simmons and Wyatt will be fine."

"We won't," Ramirez reminded him. "Bulletproof or not, that glass won't hold forever, Kyser. Either we take them out, or they take us out."

"You can't go out there alone!" Kyser snapped. "Just help me get out and I'll go with you."

"I can't; I need to start thinning the herd," Ramirez shook his head, adjusting his position to get a look at his colleague's foot. "The lace of your boot is caught; you'll never get out with it on. Take it off and come help me."

"Eric, just hold on a minute and think about this," Kyser implored.

"Call it in, Kyser," Ramirez growled, done arguing. "Get yourself free, then come help me!"

"Eric!" Before Kyser could stop him, Ramirez was climbing out, stepping on the steering wheel and lifting himself out, firing back at their advancing attackers. Kyser groaned in frustration, reaching up and grabbing the radio from the dash.

"This is transport one—we are under attack," the medic gasped out. "At least ten hostiles. The transport is tipped, I am pinned, and Ramirez just went out to try and fight them off. Don't know what Simmons and Wyatt's status is. We can't—oh shit!"

He broke off when one of the bullets assaulting the windshield broke halfway through. Breathing hard, he pressed the talk button on the radio again.

"Send backup," his voice was almost pleading. "Send everyone. I've gotta get out; the windshield's failing. Hurry!"

With this, he dropped the radio, turning his full attention to his foot, ignoring the pleas from dispatch to respond. With his hands shaking, he undid the laces of his boot, grunting as he tried pulling his foot free once more. Another bullet half-pierced the windshield, just a few inches above him, and that spike of adrenaline was all he needed to yank himself free with a cry of pain. His ankle was already swelling, and he'd lost his shoe, but he didn't care; he needed to get out. He grabbed his helmet, which he'd taken off to adjust when they were hit, and put it back on, then grabbed his gun and started climbing out. He sat on the side of the transport, firing at the advancing swarms, a few of which were down—either dead or wounded—as the rest took cover.

"Eric!" he shouted, looking around for his colleague.

"Here!" Kyser was relieved to hear his voice coming from behind the roof of their transport. The wounded medic quickly slid across the side of the transport towards the roof, looking down to see Ramirez crouched in the grass along the side of the isolated two-lane road outside the city, using their transport as cover, and—bracing himself—he jumped down to join him, giving a yelp when he landed. Ramirez steadied him, and Kyser shot him a grateful look.

"Are Simmons and Wyatt okay?" Kyser asked, his voice quiet when he found a lull in the gunfire.

"Let's find out," Ramirez shrugged. "On three."

He counted them off, and then the two of them pounded out 'shave and a haircut' on the roof of their transport, several feet away from each other so their friends would know they were both alright. After a few tense seconds, they got the 'two bits' response from two different sources, and let out sighs of relief.

"Alright," Kyser breathed. "Let's do this."

Ramirez nodded, and they split up, Kyser limping towards to front of the transport vehicle, Ramirez inching towards the back. As they started firing in the direction of the advancing masses, they heard sirens in the distance, coming closer. The calvary was on its way.

"Holy shit," Kyser heard his colleague gasp, and looked over to see him step slightly out of his cover, as if trying to get a better look at something. Almost immediately, he gave a cry of shock and fell backwards.

"Eric!" the medic's eyes grew wide, and he ran to his colleague as fast as his feet could take him, grabbing the back of his vest and pulling him behind the cover of the transport. Ramirez gave a pain-filled groan, pinching his eyes shut as sweat beaded on his brow. Kyser's heart leapt into his throat, a sickening sense of déjà vu washing over him. Looking down at him, the medic could see one bullet embedded in his vest, dead center over his heart, but there was another shot to the low middle-left of the vest that was bleeding. More armor-piercing rounds.

"Oh, God," Kyser breathed, quickly trying to put pressure on the wound. "Eric, stay with me...c'mon, Eric, just stay with me..."

Inside the transport, Simmons and Wyatt looked at each other grimly, hearing Ramirez and Kyser's muffled yells. Simmons' jaw set, and he reached over and released Tiago's seatbelt, pulling their prisoner far away from the door.

"Keep an eye on him," the team leader ordered, moving towards the door and trying to listen to what was going on outside. Wyatt obediently got to his feet, grunting in pain at the movement, and moved closer to Tiago, keeping a safe distance while still within his striking range.

"Não há sentido," Tiago chuckled. "Vocês dois vão morrer."

"Yeah?" Wyatt raised an eyebrow at him. "Well if we die, you're coming with us, asshole."

"Eu duvido disso."

"You shouldn't," Wyatt snapped. "Now, shut up before I lose my patience with you."

Simmons glanced at them, then focused on what he could hear. There were unfamiliar voices yelling, followed by several loud _bangs_ around the outside of the door. The color drained from his face, and he scrambled back to Wyatt's side.

"Get ready," he warned, raising his weapon to aim at the door, getting to one knee to steady his aim. Wyatt mimicked him, his jaw tightening. Thermite charges made quick work of the door, slicing right through the metal around it, punching a keyhole right through the transport. The two wounded operatives were met by several armed assailants, and, to their horror but not necessarily surprise, Selam Asmara, standing behind them.

"Good morning, gentlemen," the terrorist greeted them with a sadistic smirk. "I think you have something of mine."

"You shoot us, you shoot him," Simmons snapped, his voice surprisingly steady.

"You'd really die for him?" Asmara raised an eyebrow.

"To screw you over? Sure," the team leader scoffed.

"Oh, but there's been so much bloodshed today," Asmara shook his head, watching both operatives tense up. "Do you really want to cause more?"

Neither Simmons nor Wyatt made any move to surrender. They could both hear the sirens in the distance, but they weren't nearly close enough. The two of them stared their enemies down for several minutes before Wyatt spoke up.

"If they wanted him dead they would have shot us all on sight," he realized, his voice quiet. "And if they want him alive, then we can shoot them but they can't shoot us."

He didn't have to say anything else; he and Simmons both began firing their weapons at the mass of assailants, trying to thin the herd. Unfortunately, with their injuries, neither was a very good shot at the moment, but they did manage to non-fatally wound several of them, and the rest quickly moved to get cover. The two operatives fired whenever one of them came back into their line of sight, effectively keeping them at bay as the sirens slowly inched closer.

Outside on the grassy embankment, Kyser was struggling to keep on top of the blood oozing from Ramirez's wound and keep the attackers back. Several kept trying to approach, but Kyser was holding them back as best he could, using his sidearm so that he could use one hand to keep pressure on his colleague's injury at all times.

"Alright, Eric, stay with me," the medic urged, wishing desperately for his med bag. "You with me? You good?"

"Yeah," Ramirez gasped through his tightly-clenched teeth, breathing hard as tears of agony leaked from his eyes. "Yeah, I'm good...I'm good..."

"Okay...Okay, you're gonna be fine; just stay with me," Kyser urged, his voice steady and reassuring as he fired two shots in front of him, towards the front of the transport, flinching when he heard the thermite behind him, knowing they'd gotten into the back. After a few moments, there was gunfire from inside the transport, and Kyser prayed it was from his team. He heard someone shout something in Portuguese—Tiago, maybe—and to his surprise, the attackers stopped coming. The medic wasn't about to waste the chance. He put his gun down and removed both his and Ramirez's vests, then removed his own helmet and shirt along with Ramirez's belt. He quickly balled up the shirt and tied the belt around his friend's abdomen, placing the buckle right over the bullet wound, covered by the scrunched fabric, and tightening it. Ramirez suppressed a scream, instead groaning loudly through his teeth, his eyes tightly clenched.

"Sorry—I'm sorry," Kyser hissed, tightening the belt as much as he could before buckling it, resuming pressure with both hands. "Just stay with me, Eric; c'mon."

Gasping, Ramirez pried his eyes open, looking up at his colleague with dozens of emotions on his face.

"It's Asmara," he told the medic, his voice breathy and strained. "I saw him. I saw him around back; he's here."

"Fuck," Kyser muttered under his breath. His eyes flicked to his gun, then his friend's wound. It was bleeding too fast; he needed to keep pressure. But if it was Asmara, Simmons and Wyatt needed help. He didn't have time to debate for too much longer; Ramirez glanced behind him, and Kyser watched his eyes grow wide, but neither could react before Kyser felt a gun jab into the back of his head. The medic stiffened, but didn't remove his hands from Ramirez's wound.

"Get up," he heard Asmara snarl, seeing his gun get kicked out of reach out of the corner of his eye.

"No," Kyser refused. "If I let go, he could bleed out."

"And if I kill you, he will definitely bleed out," Asmara pointed out with an audible smirk. "And then you'll both be dead and I will still get what I want. Your choice."

Kyser's jaw twitched, and he looked at Ramirez with an anguished expression on his face. The wounded operative looked up at him, conflict clearly seen on his face, and Kyser shook his head angrily, grabbing the belt with his bloodstained hands and tightening it one more notch as Ramirez breathed out, making the man cry out in pain.

"I'm sorry," Kyser breathed, buckling the belt again. "I'll be right back; just hold on."

With this, he reluctantly pulled his bloody hands back, allowing Asmara to grab his bare shoulder and yank him to his feet. Ramirez stared after them, horrified and angry, but could do nothing to help. Asmara forced Kyser to tear his eyes away from his wounded companion and walk—or, more accurately, limp—towards the back of the transport.

"You might want to let your friends know you're coming," Asmara advised. Kyser swallowed hard, anger and frustration on his face.

"Simmons, Wyatt, it's me," Kyser called as Asmara pushed him closer to the hole they'd burned into the back of the transport. "Don't shoot."

Inside, Simmons and Wyatt exchanged wary glances, resting their fingers on the sides of their triggers. When the medic came into view, his shirt missing, his shoeless foot visibly swollen, and blood staining his skin, they both felt the breath get knocked from their lungs, and then a rush of anger when they saw Asmara holding the gun to his head.

"Now, gentlemen," Asmara sighed, a smile on his face. "You have someone I want, and I have someone you want. I think this could work out for everyone. Put your weapons down, release my associate, and step away, or I kill not only _this_ friend of yours, but also the one bleeding out in the grass over there. You have thirty seconds to decide."

Simmons and Wyatt looked at each other, and then at Kyser, knowing they were caught. They didn't have a choice, even knowing that Asmara would probably kill them anyway. Anger, frustration, and defeat filled their eyes, but they both reluctantly put their weapons down on the metal beneath them. Wyatt put his right hand up by his head—his mangled left one he still cradled to his side—as Simmons pulled out the keys, turned, and unlocked the shackles around Tiago's wrists and ankles before resuming his previous position, his hands up by his head. Now free, Tiago pulled the black hood from his head and smiled, standing up, hunched over to avoid hitting his head on the top of the transport.

"Eu te disse," he hissed as he shoved past Wyatt, making him draw a sharp breath. Tiago made his way out of the transport, straightening and rolling his shoulders when he stepped outside. He and Asmara started talking to each other in Portuguese, and Simmons glanced at Wyatt.

"What are they saying?" he asked under his breath.

"Nothing useful," Wyatt whispered back, staring at Kyser helplessly. "Asmara's apologizing for taking so long and for the rough extraction. Tiago's telling him not to worry about it, and..." he frowned, "and that it was worth it. And he's definitely not talking about his freedom."

"Then what the hell—" Simmons began, only for Wyatt to cut him off.

"Shit," the newest operative breathed. "Asmara just said they'll talk more later. Until then..."

"They're gonna kill us, aren't they?" Simmons concluded, his mouth a hard line. Wyatt nodded slightly, his heart pounding in his chest.

As Asmara's men slowly began piling into the cars and trucks they arrived in, leaving only those necessary to control the three able-bodied operatives, Asmara switched back to English to address Kyser.

"My friends and I are going to leave, now," he informed the field medic. "But before we do, I have something I want you to pass on to my old friends, Agents Dalton and MacGyver."

"Which is?" Kyser asked as his stomach churned, looking over at Simmons and Wyatt and trying to glance back at Ramirez, though he was unable to see him from his current position.

"I win."

With this, one of Selam's men fired into the overturned truck, causing Simmons and Wyatt to cry out and fall. Kyser's eyes grew wide with horror.

"No!" he shouted in desperation, trying to get to his colleagues, and Selam released him, letting him run to them, the pain in his swollen ankle seeming to vanish. When he reached them, his blood ran cold and his throat felt like it closed up. They were both still alive, but there...there was so much blood...he didn't even know where to begin to help them.

"Kyser," Simmons gasped out, his chest heaving. "Asmara...you can't...you can't let him get away..."

Kyser blinked, looking over his shoulder to see that Selam was already almost at his car, Tiago in tow. Without hesitating, he picked up Wyatt's abandoned gun and fired in their direction. Despite Asmara and Tiago's efforts to get to cover, Kyser heard Selam cry out before he got in the car and they sped away, leaving Kyser alone with his three wounded friends.

"I think I winged him," the medic reported, discarding the gun and putting all his attention on Wyatt and Simmons. Simmons had three wounds: one was right below his right clavicle, one was just below the left side of his ribcage, and one was to the near middle of his lower abdomen. Wyatt had four wounds: One to his left leg, one to the right side of his lower abdomen, one through his left shoulder, and the last one was a deep graze to the right side of his forehead.

"Okay," Kyser sighed, trying to be clinical but feeling panic well up in him. He went about taking off their vests, trying to assess which wounds were the worst. The two lower ones on Simmons were concerning, and Wyatt's leg was bleeding badly.

"Okay, you're both going to be fine, but I need you to stay with me, okay?" he urged, starting with Wyatt, who was bleeding faster, taking the man's belt and using it to make a tourniquet above his wound, cinching it as tight as he could and apologizing when he cried out. "Both of you, just stay awake. Don't you dare fall asleep, got it?"

Neither of his patients answered, but he didn't expect them to. As the sirens finally seemed to be getting rapidly closer, and he began to hear a helicopter overhead, Kyser shifted over to Simmons, grabbing the black hood they'd had over Tiago's head and balling it up, taking the wounded man's belt and tightening it around both the balled-up cloth and the wound in the middle of his lower abdomen. Both he and Wyatt were struggling to stay conscious, and Kyser's stomach lurched. Keeping pressure on the wound below Simmons' ribcage with one hand, the medic reached out and pounded out 'shave and a haircut' on the roof of the transport, and he felt tears well up in his eyes when he got no response.

"C'mon, Eric, please..." he begged quietly, repeating the rhythm. Still he got no response, and he let out a cry of frustration, his chest heaving as he tried to control both of his colleagues' bleeding, desperate to know if Ramirez was even still alive. It felt like hours before help finally arrived, and by then, both Simmons and Wyatt had lost consciousness, despite Kyser's best efforts. The wounded medic slowly sat down off to the side, watching the medical team try to stabilize them, feeling numb and unable to move, pushing away any assistance that came towards him, muttering over and over that it wasn't his blood, that he didn't need help. Not nearly soon enough, Simmons and Wyatt—and Ramirez, though Kyser didn't see that—were loaded into the helicopter, and Kyser into one of the ambulances. Now completely separated from his friends, Kyser couldn't help but let the tears fall, panic making his chest tighten and his heart race, alarming the two paramedics with him. He'd failed. He'd let Selam and Tiago get away. He didn't see Asmara coming, had let himself be used against his colleagues. And on top of all that, he hadn't been able to save any of them.

And as the paramedics gave him a mild sedative, forcing him to relax, he knew he'd never be able to forgive himself for that.

* * *

Mac, Jack, and Bozer ran into the hospital, having gotten the call about the attack not long after their three seriously wounded colleagues were airlifted to the nearest hospital—one not too far from where Jack had been taken—and found Cage and Matty already there and waiting. The three men came over to them, but Matty spoke first.

"We don't know anything yet," she told them. "Our people haven't even arrived yet; they should be here any minute."

As if on cue, the elevator doors opened, and Ramirez, Simmons, and Wyatt were rushed off of it, towards the trauma center, their stats being called out left and right.

"Doctor Chang, Trauma One," the head nurse called out. "Doctor Lewis to Trauma Two. Where is Doctor Hewitt?"

"Gridlock on the 405," someone else called out. "Same with Doctors King and Newberry."

"Well I need another trauma surgeon!" the head nurse threw her hands up in exasperation as the Phoenix agents exchanged worried glances.

"You got one!" a familiar voice spoke up. They all turned to see Doctor Parker, dressed in her street clothes, looking like she _just_ got off a shift, give a man in scrubs a quick kiss on the lips and a promise to see him later before rushing over to the head nurse.

"You don't work here anymore, Parker," the head nurse raised an eyebrow.

"Yeah, well, I only transferred six months ago, Loretta," Parker rolled her eyes, as if the duration made a difference. "Look, you need a trauma surgeon, I am a trauma surgeon, and your patient can't wait until the 405 clears up—because it never will—so this is perfect. No need to thank me, no need to pay me; consider it my parting gift, six months late. Trauma three, right?"

The head nurse, Loretta, gave a sigh, then waved her hand dismissively, and Parker smiled before running off to get ready.

"Matty, what happened?" Jack demanded, his stomach churning after seeing Simmons in such a state. He was one of the luckiest people Jack had ever known; in the twelve years they'd known each other, over the course of countless missions, Jack hadn't seen him get so much as a papercut, much less take a bullet that wasn't stopped by a vest.

"I don't know," his boss admitted. "Simmons, Ramirez, Wyatt, and Kyser were escorting Tiago back to solitary. About half an hour in, Kyser radios in, says they're under attack. I sent in backup, but they hit traffic, so I sent the helicopter. By the time they all got there, whatever happened was over, and Kyser was tending to Simmons and Wyatt inside the overturned transport. Ramirez was outside, unconscious."

"Where's Kyser?" Mac asked, realizing he hadn't been brought in.

"His injuries were more minor, so he left in the ambulance," Cage replied, some guilt in her expression. "He should be arriving soon."

"He say anything about what happened?" Bozer chimed in.

"Not that I'm aware of," Matty shrugged.

"He was freaking out in the ambulance, so the paramedics sedated him a bit," Cage added.

"I'll bet he was freaking out," Jack muttered, worry in his expression. After a few minutes, they saw Kyser come in from the back, Emerson not far behind, his hair a mess and dressed in sweats and a t-shirt—it was his day off, but with all of the Phoenix medical staff dealing with the fallout of another mission gone wrong, he was the only one of their people available. They would have brought Kyser to the Phoenix, but he wouldn't hear of it, wanting to be wherever his team had been taken. Matty wordlessly directed the incoming personnel to an empty room that she'd gotten them clearance to use, and the paramedics wheeled Kyser inside and transferred him to the waiting bed, leaving him with Emerson and the Phoenix crew.

"Kyser," Emerson said quickly, his voice seeming to jolt him from a trance. "Can you tell me what happened? What did you hurt?"

"It's not my blood," Kyser replied almost robotically.

"Some of it is," Emerson reminded him, nodding at the cut on his head.

"It's not mine," Kyser shook his head, blinking slowly, his eyes a million miles away. His friends exchanged glances, and Emerson stepped away from his patient for a moment.

"Jack," he said quietly, "could you keep his attention while I clean him up so I can see what I'm dealing with?"

"Why is he so out of it?" Bozer piped up before Jack could answer, though the former Delta gave a nod, stepping around to Kyser's left side.

"Combination of the head wound and sedatives," Emerson shrugged. "It looks like he's going to be fine, but I want to make sure there's no wound I'm missing. The sedatives should wear off soon; I talked to the paramedics on the way in."

With this, Emerson went about cleaning the dried blood from Kyser's hands, arms, and torso as Jack tried to keep his attention.

"Kyser," he began evenly, making the medic open his eyes. Kyser gave him a weary smile.

"Jack," he said drowsily, blinking that slow blink.

"Hey, man," Jack forced himself to smile. "You doing okay? What happened?"

"I'm fine," Kyser said dismissively, grimacing visibly. "It's not my blood."

"I know," Jack nodded, his voice gentle. "I know it's not, man. What happened?"

"A truck t-boned the transport," Kyser replied, a tightness in his voice as he recalled the incident. "We tipped over...I hit my head, and...my foot got stuck under the seat..."

"Ouch," Jack whistled comically, making Kyser laugh in spite of himself, tears in his eyes. "Kyser, where did the blood come from? Did you get hurt somewhere along the way?"

"It's not mine," Kyser repeated, his voice now trembling, more tears gathering in his green eyes.

"I know most of it's not yours, Kyser," Jack soothed patiently. It made him sick to his stomach to see the medic so torn up; he was usually so calm and in-control. "But is any of it, besides your head?"

"It's not mine," Kyser was crying, now, his shoulders shaking with sobs. "I didn't know what to do; there was so much blood...I couldn't save them...I'm so sorry..."

"Hey, Kyser, look at me," Jack couldn't help but let worry creep into his voice. Kyser looked up at him, his eyes shining and his expression almost meek. "It's not your fault, man. You did what you could; that's all anyone can ask of you. You did good. You did your part; the rest is out of your hands. Understand?"

Kyser nodded slowly, looking down.

"Kyser," Matty spoke up, compassion and impatience fighting each other in her tone. The wounded medic looked over at her, seeming to only just then recognize that there were other people in the room. "Can you tell us what happened after the crash?"

The medic flinched, partially in response to Emerson cleaning out his head wound. He swallowed hard and took a breath before forcing himself to speak.

"Ramirez went down after we got out of the transport," Kyser told her, his voice shaking, clearly having to put effort into staying focused, fighting the lingering sedatives in his system. "He said...he said he saw Asmara out with the crowd."

Here, Mac and Jack exchanged uncomfortable glances, Mac shifting his feet and crossing his arms almost defensively.

"He was right; Asmara came up behind me, pulled me away from Ramirez..." Kyser's jaw twitched as he dropped his gaze, "Used me to get Simmons and Wyatt to surrender...grabbed Tiago, and...and shot...shot Simmons and Wyatt, left me there to try and take care of them both, probably knowing I couldn't...I...I think I shot him, as he was running off..."

"What?" Bozer seemed both surprised and impressed.

"I don't think it was a good shot," Kyser shook his head, slowly becoming more alert. "But I definitely winged him, at least."

"Damn good work, Kyser," Jack approved with a smile, and even Mac grinned.

"Don't congratulate me yet," Kyser warned grimly. "He had a message for you and Mac."

"Which was?" Mac asked when no one spoke.

"'I win,'" Kyser replied, his expression grave as Emerson began stitching his head wound. Mac tensed visibly, looking over at Jack, seeing the former Delta's jaw tighten. After several moments, Cage opened her mouth to speak, but was cut off by the lights overhead going out, allowing the room to be lit only by the bright, clear, sunny sky overhead. Everyone froze, looking around at each other, before the backup generators kicked in. Jack was the one to speak first.

"What the hell was that?"

* * *

 **And so it begins. Phase 3. Hell yes. I'm so excited. I've finally gotten all the details perfect (I'm like 90% sure my computer has been flagged for that, but it's worth it) and GAH I'm so excited to write it. It's very late right now unfortunately (for me, anyway; I get up way too damn early), so I can't write more now, but it'll come soon. I hope you all enjoyed, despite a lack of Mac and Jack (this is the only time that will happen, I promise). I needed to tee it up, so to speak.**


	27. Skyway Medical

Charlie jumped when the door of his prison banged open, his heart pounding, and his eyes grew wide when his father stumbled in, bleeding from a wound on his upper arm near where the limb fed into his socket, two men he didn't recognize following him, one holding a medkit and the other dressed in an orange jumpsuit. Selam barely glanced at him, taking a seat in the cloth chair farthest from him. The man with the medkit set it down on the desk and opened it, starting to go about treating the wound. Selam and the man in the jumpsuit were talking rapidly in Portuguese, and Selam did _not_ sound happy. Charlie couldn't hope to understand him, so he did his best to make himself as small as possible, stared at the floor, and prayed they'd just ignore him. For a while, that's exactly what they did. It wasn't until the man with the medkit had finished cleaning, stitching, and covering Selam's wounded arm and Selam had thanked him as he left that they paid him any attention.

"Charlie," Selam's voice made the young man jolt again. He kept his head down, refusing to look up at his father, his heart pounding in his chest. Selam let out a sigh.

"Charlie, relax," the young captive could practically hear him roll his eyes. He heard footsteps approach him, and he lifted his head to see his father coming towards him. Charlie tried to flatten himself into the wall, to get away from him, but it was no use. Asmara crouched down in front of him, studying him for a moment before reaching out towards his face—an action that made Charlie flinch—and carefully removing the tape over his mouth, crumpling it up and discarding it when he realized it was losing its stickiness.

"No one's going to hurt you," Asmara promised. Charlie surprised everyone—including himself—by laughing.

"Well that's just an outright lie," he pointed out. " _You_ already hurt me."

"You were being disrespectful," Asmara reminded him, a warning in his voice, making his son swallow hard. "But I'm willing to look past that because you've been having a bit of a rough day. Don't make me regret that."

Charlie's jaw twitched, but he didn't say anything. At least, not for a few seconds. Instead, he glanced over at the man in the jumpsuit. "Who's he?"

"Charlie, Tiago," Asmara introduced them. "Tiago, this is my son, Charlie."

The man, Tiago, said something in Portuguese, and the student just blinked at him.

"He says hi," Selam chuckled.

"What happened to you two?" Charlie asked, unsure if he wanted to know the answer.

"We just ran into a little trouble with some fine gentlemen at the Phoenix Foundation," Asmara told him, though there was bitterness and hatred in his voice. "Speaking of which," he turned to Tiago, "go tell Mateus and Bratcher to get going. Wouldn't want to be late for Phoenix's shipment."

Tiago smirked and nodded, heading out of the room. Once alone, Selam turned back to his son, studying him for a moment or two.

"What?" Charlie demanded, squirming under his gaze.

"Nothing," Selam shook his head, standing up. "Don't get too comfy; we're leaving tomorrow morning. I've got somewhere I need to be."

* * *

Riley didn't even look up when the others came into the war room. She was sitting sideways on one of the chairs, wearing loose, red flannel pants and an oversized t-shirt with fuzzy black slippers on her feet. She'd gotten an alert on her phone when the power went out at 8:12 that morning, waking her from her planned Saturday morning sleep-in. Upon seeing the alert, she'd shoved her feet into the first shoe-like things she could find and raced over to the Phoenix. She'd beat her coworkers there by thirty minutes.

"It's an attack," she stated without looking up. "Someone seems to have created a virus that targets the power grid. Guys, this is serious shit; if we don't find the source, it could literally knock out the whole grid. It would take months to restore power—maybe over a year."

"Whoa, slow down," Jack interrupted. "Can't you shut it down?"

"No," Riley shook her head, her eyes never leaving her screen. "I'm trying to slow it down, but this thing needs to be shut down at the source. Whoever did it is covering their tracks; I can't trace them digitally. So far I've got the damage contained to mostly just downtown, but I can't keep this up forever."

"If we don't stop this thing and restore power, a lot of people are gonna die," Mac shook his head, rubbing the back of his neck wearily. "The hospital patients alone—their generators can't last forever. Not to mention the fact that people will be without water, public transportation, heat, air conditioning...security systems will fail; air traffic control would be all but blind; there could be millions in property damage alone..."

"How much time do we have?" Matty asked.

"Before the city goes dark? Until the end of the day, if I'm lucky," Riley shrugged, still typing furiously. "Until the country goes dark? A week, if this thing keeps having only one point of attack. Once it starts going after another city—I'm only one person, Matty. I can only create false targets so fast; whenever I make a new one, it's gone in less than two minutes."

"Okay, Riley, don't panic," Matty soothed. "I'll grab every available tech and put the word out to other agencies; just tell them what to do."

Riley nodded in agreement, worry etched into her face. The good part about a cyber attack, she told herself, was that while this one could only be stopped at the source, help didn't even have to come from the same hemisphere; all it took was creating the right digital signal to fool the virus into thinking it was attacking a power station.

"Is it possible that this virus was what was on Asmara's hard drive?" Cage asked suddenly, making Riley glance up for the first time.

"Kind of out of left field, there, Cage," she shook her head, unaware of what had happened earlier that day, "but yeah, could be. Our power grid really has not evolved with the times in terms of security; if he wrote the virus twenty years ago, it really wouldn't take much modification to make it viable. Why?"

Jack opened his mouth to tell her what happened, but Cage cut him off.

"Just curious," the master interrogator shrugged. Jack shot her a look, but Cage stared him down, warning him to keep quiet; they didn't need her distracted. Riley looked at her for a second before returning her attention to her screen again, too focused to give her words much thought.

"Riley, why don't you go get the techs in on the plan," Matty suggested. "I'll reach out to the other agencies and tell them to join up with you guys."

"Okay," Riley nodded absently, picking up her laptop in one arm while continuing to type with her free hand, standing up and walking out of the war room.

"Right, so if this is Asmara—" Matty began.

"Which, considering what happened this morning, it definitely is," Jack grumbled, noting how Mac shifted uncomfortably.

"Then we have to assume that this is not his only play," his boss continued. "Based on what he said to Mac and everything he's done before today, if he's making a move, it's going to be a big one, and we need to get ahead of it while we can."

"So what's he after?" Cage pondered out loud. "He got Tiago out, but for what purpose? Tiago's the one that made the convention center bomb, but RDX isn't particularly difficult to work with; he could have just gotten someone else to do it, or done it himself. And he certainly doesn't seem like the sentimental type."

"True, but he would be the type to bust him out just to get under our skin," Jack scoffed. "He's petty like that."

"So what's his play?" Cage asked again, looking at them.

"You mean besides just hitting us back for stopping his every plan so far?" Bozer raised an eyebrow.

"That might be part of it, but not all of it," Cage shook her head. "Asmara doesn't do anything without a purpose."

Before anyone else could offer any theories, Matty got an alert on her phone. Upon reading it, she swore under her breath and beamed it to the big screen. It was a missing person's report with Charlie Hill's picture attached.

"Jesus, Matty, what happened?" Jack breathed, his chest tightening.

"Neighbor heard some commotion last night coming from Charlie's apartment," Matty explained, giving the report a skim. "When he didn't see him this morning, he called in a wellness check on him. Cops found the place trashed and Charlie's phone and keys still inside. His school stuff was by the door. There was a lamp broken, an end table upended, and a few dents in the walls; the kid put up a fight."

"Should we tell his family?" Bozer asked, concern on his face.

"Not yet," Matty shook her head. "Taking Charlie could have been a ploy to get to Katherine. If they don't know he's missing, it can't work."

"Well, this day just keeps getting better," Jack rubbed his brow in frustration. "Matty, if he kills that kid..."

"It's his son, Jack; he wouldn't do that, would he?" Bozer seemed doubtful.

"Damn right he would, if Charlie doesn't give him what he wants," Jack looked over at him.

"I'm inclined to agree," Cage nodded. "Based on my research, Asmara will only put up with Charlie for so long before he gets frustrated enough to kill him."

Without warning, Mac turned and walked out of the war room, not saying a word.

"Where are you going?" Matty demanded, her words doing nothing to slow him down as Jack rushed after him and Bozer set his jaw, looking down at his feet.

"Mac!" Cage tried to call her colleague back, but Mac kept going, walking as quickly as he could towards the exit, hardly hearing Jack behind him.

"Mac, what's going on?" Jack demanded, although he knew exactly what was happening. "Talk to me, man; tell me what you're thinking."

Mac didn't acknowledge him, just focusing on getting out of the building, making a beeline for the nearest exit. He needed to get out of there. The normally open and airy space now seemed suffocating, like it was closing in on him from all sides. The young agent practically sprinted down the back stairs, through the hall, then burst through the loading dock exit, his partner on his heels, and started gulping down the brisk air. Jack grabbed his shoulders, trying to catch his eye. Mac could vaguely hear him talking, but he was just trying to slow his heart down and stop himself from trembling. When Jack's voice finally became clear, it was warm and soothing, further relieving the tension in his body.

"That's it, brother; deep breaths," Jack encouraged. "You alright?"

Mac hesitated, considering his answer, then nodded.

"You sure?" Jack raised an eyebrow at him. "Because we need you, man. Now more than ever."

"I know," Mac said breathily. "I know; I know; I know...I just...I needed to get out..."

"Hey, Mac, I get it," Jack assured him. "Believe me, I get it. It was getting intense in there for me, too."

"I knew it wasn't over," Mac shook his head, running his hands through his blond hair. Jack could see the wheels turning in his mind, and his jaw clenched, knowing that he was just working himself up and scaring himself. "I knew it...We stopped his phase two so he's combined that and phase three; it's no coincidence that the power failures started here. That was for us. He took Charlie to get to Katherine; he shot Simmons and Ramirez and Wyatt to get to us; started the power outages here as a message for us; he's coming after us again, Jack. Only he's going to do it on a larger scale this time. This time, a whole bunch of people are going to get hurt because of it."

Jack hesitated, studying him sadly, wanting to refute his words but knowing that, with him still in panic mode, it would fall on deaf ears.

"Let's take a walk," he suggested finally.

"Jack," Mac let out a sigh, about to say that they didn't have time, that if they waited too much longer, Asmara was going to strike again; they needed to do something _now_ , right now, or else—

"Mac, you're freaking out right now," Jack's voice was almost scolding, but still kind and concerned. "Even if we head back in there, neither one of us would be any help—you because you're not in the right headspace, and me because I'd be worrying about you the whole time. So c'mon; let's take a walk."

Mac hesitated, his jaw twitching, but eventually, he nodded, knowing his partner was right. They started walking, headed down the loading dock steps and onto the grass surrounding the building. They made their way past all the outdoor seating which would be filled up come lunchtime, wandering along the line of trees that could be seen from the war room above them. All the while, Jack was watching his partner out of the corner of his eye, alert to any sudden turn for the worse. Thankfully, he saw the opposite; Mac's breathing started to slow, the tension released from his shoulders, and his face began to relax. Jack smiled slightly to himself, glad to have gotten him calm again.

"Better?" he asked after another minute or two.

"Yeah," Mac nodded, letting out his breath. "Thanks, Jack."

"Anytime, brother," Jack chuckled, beginning to guide them back the way they came.

As they came around the building again, Mac stopped dead in his tracks, staring at a silver delivery van that was being offloaded. It was a new shipment of medical supplies; Phoenix had gone through a lot in the past few months. On the side of the van was the company logo: a circle made out of the shapes of two people, one green and one blue, holding hands, with a red cross in the center on a white background. Beside the logo was the company's name: Skyway Medical. Mac let a curse slip off his lips, his eyes darting around. He saw the head of the Phoenix medical team—Doctor Kyle Greene—signing for the delivery as some of the nurses began bringing the boxes inside.

"Mac, what's wrong?" Jack demanded, tensing up at the look on his face.

"It looked green in the dark," Mac breathed. The color drained from his face when the delivery driver turned away and they could see his face. He was one of Selam's guards. The man spotted him just as he was getting back in the van and smirked, starting to drive away. Jack saying his name again jolted the agent from his thoughts as realization crashed into him.

"Jack, stop that van," Mac ordered, starting to move towards the loading dock.

"What?" the former Delta blinked at him in confusion.

"Stop that van!" Mac repeated, running for the building, now. "It's Selam's people! They were driving!"

Jack blinked, wide-eyed, and started running after the van, which was moving quickly away from the Phoenix, as Mac tried to get to Doctor Greene.

"Doctor Greene, run!" the agent ordered, moving at a dead sprint. Doctor Greene looked over at him in confusion, but before either of them could say anything, a couple of the boxes that were waiting nearby exploded with enough force to knock Mac to the grass, his ears ringing.

"Mac!" Jack's voice was faint and echoing as the former Delta ran back towards him, abandoning the car chase. Mac groaned on the ground, shifting as he tried to sit up, and Jack's hands were there to help him in seconds. "You okay? Are you hurt?"

"I'm...I'm fine," Mac told him dismissively, rubbing his eyes. They both looked over at the loading dock, and found the area in flames, the door to the inside blown off its hinges, the windows blown out, and at least two bodies on the ground. There was also fire inside the building, and Mac recalled the boxes the nurses had been taking in when they arrived.

"Holy shit," Jack breathed, helping Mac up to his feet. They ran towards the two bodies they could see, desperate to help them if they could. Sirens sounded in the distance, racing towards them.

"Mine's still alive; what about yours?" Jack called over to him from his place beside one of the maintenance workers. Mac pressed his fingers into Doctor Greene's neck, and his face fell when he felt no pulse. He looked over at Jack and shook his head. The former Delta grit his teeth, already sweating from the fire around him, and started pulling their coworker to safety. Mac, meanwhile, turned his attention to the inside of the building. He hesitated for a moment, then, knowing Jack was going to be furious, ran inside. Without the open air to clear away the smoke, he started choking, coughing violently. He quickly crouched down, taking in some of the clean air near the floor. The hallway was destroyed, the walls and ceiling blown apart. He saw one very plainly dead nurse to his right with his skull caved in, and he swallowed the bile in his throat, turning away quickly. The ceiling above him shifted, and part of the remaining wall came down to his left. This part of the building was unstable to say the least; he couldn't stay long.

"Hello?" he called out as the sprinkler system finally deployed, one of the mechanisms likely damaged in the explosion. "Is anybody still in here? Hello?"

"Here!" Mac could barely hear the voice over the remaining fire and the sprinklers, but he quickly moved towards it, finding and Devon Keeler from the tac team standing—well, crouching—in the hallway just outside the stairwell. In the debris in front of him, Mac could see Taryn, lying on her stomach with her legs and lower back pinned under part of the collapsed wall. Tears were flowing from the young woman's eyes, mixing with the water from above, and pieces of her long brunette hair were falling in her face. Both of them had numerous cuts on their faces and arms.

"I can't lift it by myself," Keeler told him regretfully. Mac wordlessly got into position on Taryn's left, while Keeler grabbed hold of a section on the same side as the one Taryn was sticking out of. Before they could try to lift, Mac felt a hand on his shoulder, and looked over just in time to see Jack moving to take the position opposite him. Mac couldn't help but crack a slight smile, happy to have him there.

"On three," the former Delta yelled out. "One, two, three!"

The three of them started lifting together, their muscles straining with the effort, and slowly, the wall began lifting off of their colleague. They waited until Mac and Jack could shift their grips so that one hand was flat against the underside of the wall before Keeler let go and grabbed Taryn, pulling her clear of the wall. Only then did the two agents drop it, letting it crash to the floor. Mac looked over and saw the nurse starting to get up, and quickly ran to stop her.

"Don't get up," he warned. "Try not to move. You just had a wall fall on your back; stay down."

Taryn nodded, unable to make herself speak. Mac tossed his sopping wet hair out of his face, looking around for something he could use. His eyes fell on a door that was blown out of its frame. It was slightly mangled, but mostly flat, so he walked over and grabbed it, dragging it over beside her, making sure the handle was on the side facing him, not her. He and Jack carefully dragged the nurse onto the door—flinching when she whimpered—then Jack grabbed the end by her feet and Mac took the one by her head, and together, they lifted her up and started carrying her outside, Keeler at their heels.

"Is anyone else in here?" Mac called to Keeler.

"Not that I could see," Keeler replied.

"Almost everyone went back to Medical after dropping off a few boxes," Taryn told them, keeping herself as flat as possible, her voice strained with both tears and pain. "It was just me and Adam coming back down. Where...where _is_ Adam?"

"Just focus on you for now, okay, Taryn?" Jack suggested, surprising everyone by remembering her name. Taryn fell silent, a look of devastation on her face, their refusal to answer her question giving her the answer anyway.

When they made it outside, the ambulances and firetrucks were arriving, and a pair of paramedics waved them over to their rig, taking Taryn off their hands as the firemen started hosing down the flames that the sprinklers couldn't reach. Keeler stayed with Taryn—after all, he needed to get checked out himself—while Mac and Jack moved over towards where Matty, Cage, and Bozer had gathered. To Jack's immediate dread, there was no Riley.

"Where's Riley?" he demanded the second he joined them.

"She's fine, Jack," Matty promised. "She got out just fine. She's trying to keep up with the virus. She was clear on the other side of the building when it happened."

"Speaking of," Bozer spoke up, studying Mac critically. "What did happen?"

"Doctor Greene is dead," Jack told them when Mac didn't say anything, watching his partner trying to shove his drenched hair out of his eyes. "So's one of the nurses—Adam. Didn't catch his last name. One of the maintenance guys is being treated by the paramedics right now. Taryn got trapped under a wall, so she's with them, too. Keeler doesn't seem to be hurt too bad. Thankfully, there weren't a whole lot of people nearby."

"Yes, but what _happened_?" Cage pressed.

All eyes shifted to Mac, who was staring at the ground. After a few seconds, he lifted his head and met their eyes, looking much calmer than they thought he would.

"Asmara," he replied steadily. "It was Asmara. I saw the delivery van, recognized the decal on the side, recognized one of the delivery people. I didn't realize that one of the shades of green I saw in the logo wasn't green at all; it was blue. If I had, I'd have realized what logo I was looking at from the start. This was a deliberate strike against the Phoenix; Asmara's trying to take us down, throw us off our game. Distract us."

"From what?" Bozer blinked at him in surprise.

"I don't know," Mac admitted. "But I might have an idea on how to find out."

* * *

 **It's 5:30 AM. I got up at 3:30. I still have so much stuff to do. I hate myself. So much. Apologies for not having a wittier, more banter-filled author's note, but again...it's 5:30 and I've already been up for 2 hours. It's taking a lot for me to not just straight up fall asleep.**

 **BUT, on the bright side, my cat is utterly adorable.**

 **I hope you all enjoyed!**


	28. Hexavalent Chromium

"Alright, so, run this by me again," Matty's voice was harsh through Mac's phone speaker as the agent dried himself off from his unexpected shower. He'd already changed out of his jeans and into a new pair. The first pair was a bit singed and smelled of smoke on top of being absolutely sopping wet. His soaked t-shirt was also gone, and one of the spare shirts he kept in his gym locker was waiting for him. After they'd helped contain the damage caused by the explosives, sealed off the affected area (luckily, that didn't include many active locations; it was mostly storage both above and below the blast), and moved Doctor Greene and Adam Novak's bodies, he and Jack had gone to get cleaned up, and Mac was explaining his idea to his colleagues as they did so. "You want us to find Asmara based on...?"

"Hexavalent chromium compounds," Mac replied, rubbing his freshly-washed hair with a towel. Beside him, Jack was pulling on a new shirt as well before sitting down to put on a fresh pair of socks. The two of them were getting cleaned up in the locker room while Matty and Bozer were up in the war room. "Specifically, sodium dichromate. It's an inorganic salt and a powerful oxidant used in the manufacture of inks and dyes, to prevent corrosion, as a laboratory reagent, and in leather tanning and electroplating. The salt is bright orange in color, and when reacted with sulfuric acid, it produces a dark red solid called chromium trioxide."

"That's great, Mac, but I really don't see where you're going with this," Cage broke in, her voice making her colleagues jump. They turned to see her leaning against some lockers a few feet from them.

"Okay hold on, now; this is the men's locker room," Jack protested, the expression on his face making Mac chuckle. Jack turned to him and mouthed the word "boundaries," making his small smirk turn into a grin.

"You two were dragging your feet getting cleaned up," Cage shrugged in her defense.

"Wait what?" Jack raised an eyebrow. "How long have you been standing there? HR is on the third floor, you know, if you need a refresher course on this."

"You've been to HR more than any of us, Jack," Mac teased, still surprisingly relaxed.

"Focus, MacGyver," Matty interrupted.

"Right," Mac shook his head and pulled on his shirt, grabbing his phone from his locker and closing it. He continued as he, Jack, and Cage started to make their way up towards the war room. "Sorry. Ah...basically, I saw sodium dichromate powder all over the boxes Asmara's people delivered. And I know it was sodium dichromate because one of those boxes—one that didn't contain explosives—was sitting on the loading dock right next to another box from a shipment that came in earlier today containing sulfuric acid. The explosion must have broken one of the bottles, because it was leaking, and when it came into contact with that orange powder—"

"It turned into that dark red stuff you were talkin' about earlier," Jack finished as they climbed the stairs.

"Right," Mac nodded with a slight laugh.

"Still not sure how that helps us," Bozer prompted.

"Well, it helps, Boze, because hexavalent chromium is a known carcinogen," Mac explained. "And because it's so readily soluble in water—which makes it easy to permeate the water supply—the EPA has started restricting its use in all forms, including sodium dichromate. In the state of California, the restrictions are even more extreme; its use is heavily monitored and expensive. Most companies have moved away from it because there are just too many hoops to jump through to keep using it. It's like lead and asbestos; technically not illegal in all forms and all places, but too much of a hazard to even bother with."

"So the number of places that powder could have come from is relatively small," Cage concluded, catching on to what Mac was getting at.

"Exactly," Mac nodded, hanging up as the trio walked into the war room and joined their colleagues. "Add in the fact that wherever it came from had to be abandoned for Asmara to be able to operate there, and the list gets even shorter. At the very least we know the boxes containing the bombs were kept there, if not Asmara and his men, too."

"It's more than we had this morning," Matty acknowledged. "I'll see if Riley—"

"I'm here," Riley cut in, walking into the room with her laptop on her arm. In the several hours since the explosion—though more likely just in the last few minutes—she'd gotten changed into actual clothes, her slippers replaced with black combat boots, her flannel PJ pants replaced with jeans, and her loose t-shirt was now covered with a jacket. "Most of the techs in the area, both from here and other agencies, are playing keep away with the virus, but we're gonna need reinforcements soon; it's like the damn thing is learning. But, for now, I'm all yours. What do you need?"

"Pull up every business in the Los Angeles area with permits to use sodium dichromate issued in the last, oh..." Mac trailed off, making a face as he thought about it, "five years."

Riley took a seat in one of the open chairs and did as she was told, projecting the results onto the big screen.

"Sixty-two hits," she reported, little pins popping up at each location.

"Okay, now remove all of those that are still operating," Mac ordered, his eyes narrowing at the screen. Riley hit a few keys, and the pins started falling away.

"Thirty-three," she stated when the search was complete.

"Now knock out all the ones that are in areas where other businesses are still active," the young agent added. Riley updated the parameters, and more pins fell away.

"Twenty-one," she reported after a moment. Everyone in the room deflated.

"That's a lot of real estate to cover," Jack mused, rubbing the back of his neck.

"It's better than where we started," Cage allowed.

"Riley, would the virus have to be initiated from the source servers themselves?" Mac asked, looking over at her.

"Not necessarily," she shook her head. "He could have rigged up a laptop to act as a remote control; it could theoretically initiate and monitor the virus but not be able to stop it."

"So, theoretically, he could have been anywhere when he initiated the attack," Bozer mused, studying the map displaying the twenty-one targets. They were spread out across the entire Los Angeles area, with no clusters that would help speed their search.

"Still, I think we should start with the ones closest to where the transport was attacked," Mac concluded. "I mean, just because it's possible he made a remote doesn't mean he did."

"That's true," Matty nodded, the gears turning in her head. "Alright, Jack and Cage gear up with Tac and start clearing those locations. Unfortunately, between this morning's crash, last night's disaster of a mission, and the bombing, we only have enough people right now to go one at a time, so be fast. Boze, Mac, and Riley, you're going to join them, and Riley's going to stay in the van until someone finds Asmara's servers. Let's go! We don't have all day!"

* * *

Jack made his way through the darkness shrouding him, his only light coming from the flashlight mounted to his gun and what little city light seeped in through the leather manufacturer's boarded-up windows. This time, though, he was leading his group, and Mac was right behind him. Keeler, having been cleared by the paramedics, had taken up the rear of their trio. They'd all split up to clear the massive structure—their sixteenth of the day—and were moving almost silently through the area, giving whispered "clear"s through their coms. The former Delta was all business, focused on their task as he cleared room after room, his movements controlled and practiced. After about twenty minutes of searching, they'd cleared all the rooms in their area and had found , and Jack let out a sigh.

"We're all clear down here; anybody find anything?" the former Delta asked into his coms.

"Nothing here," Cage reported, sounding disappointed.

"Nothing here, either," Carter, another member of the tac team, chimed in. "Place is empty. If anyone was here, they've cleared out."

"Riley, I don't suppose this part of the city still has power," Jack sounded hopeful, and out in the van, Riley gave a small half-smile.

"Sorry, Jack," she told him regretfully. "Almost the whole city has gone dark, now. Everyone's operating on generators, and this place doesn't have any."

"Dammit," the former Delta muttered to himself. "Alright, well, guess we're on to the next one, huh, Mac?"

Jack turned around, expecting to see his partner, but instead, no one was there. "Mac?"

"Over here, Jack," the older agent swung his flashlight towards the sound of his partner's voice and found him crouching by some boxes near the back wall of what appeared to be the operation's storage bay. Keeler was standing by his side, keeping an eye out, and gave Jack a nod as he came closer.

"What'd you find?" Jack asked, crouching beside him.

"Sodium dichromate," Mac replied, nodding towards the spilled orange powder covering the floor and the boxes. There were voids in the powder, as if boxes had been moved, and a clearly defined shoe print in the dust. "This was the place."

"Mac, every last one of the fifteen other places we checked had this cheese powder crap you've been talking about," Jack reminded him. "A few voids in the powder does not a smoking gun make."

"No, but the table on the right hand wall has all the components to make a bomb," Mac countered. "Well, besides the explosives."

"Y'know, you coulda led with that," Jack rolled his eyes. Mac gave a half-smile and a laugh, and they both stood up. "Riles, this is the place; see if you can find anything on the cameras in the area before the power went out. Everybody else, fan out; see what you can see."

"On it," Riley responded dutifully.

"Hey," Mac turned around when Jack grabbed his arm, having turned to start doing a better examination of the room. His partner's voice was quiet, and his face was full of concern. "You doing okay?"

"Yeah, I'm fine," Mac gave him a quizzical look. "Why?"

"Well, this morning you were freaking out, and now it's like you've flipped a switch," Jack pointed out, studying him carefully. "You've been quiet and calm ever since we left the Phoenix. Don't get me wrong, man; I'm real glad you're not outwardly losing your mind right now, but I just got a bit of whiplash from the change, is all."

Mac rolled his eyes good-naturedly. It did feel good to have Jack watching out for him, but he would be remiss if he didn't give him a hard time for it.

"I'm good, Jack," he promised. "Really. It's just...A big part of the reason I was so freaked out was the anticipation, the waiting for the other shoe to drop, the knowing that it wasn't over but being unable to do anything about it—that feeling of just _dread_ was killing me. Now I'm obviously not _happy_ that Asmara's come back, but coming after us tipped his hand, gave us a lead. I can _do_ something, now. I don't have to just sit around and wait. That's all."

Jack hesitated, studying him, before giving a nod. "Alright. So, you find any other clues, there, Sherlock?"

"Actually, yeah," Mac nodded, motioning for him to follow towards the middle of the large room. Machinery was strewn about, some covered with sheets of plastic, completely abandoned and left to rust, though there was a significant amount of empty space between the large metal garage door and the table on which Mac had found the bomb materials. He stopped beside a broken down cardboard box in the middle of the empty space. On the cardboard was a tire print in dried mud.

"And?" Jack looked at him in confusion. "Mac, a tire print isn't exactly a big break. Who says it's even from them? It could have been there for years. And if it was them, how do you know it's not the van?"

"You need to learn to look more closely at things," Mac shook his head. "First of all, it's too small to be the van. Second of all, it's recent. The mud on top is dry but the cardboard is still damp; given the ambient temperature of the room, our unusually cold weather the past couple days, and water's rate of evaporation, I'd say this print was made within the past two days, and as recently as this morning."

"Okay well you don't need to show off," Jack made a face at him, taking out his phone and snapping a picture of the track as Cage and Bozer made their way into the room, leaving Tac to search the rest of the building. "Riley, heads up; picture coming your way. Could help narrow down the search."

"Actually, it helps a lot," Riley mumbled. "Okay, the tracks belong to a set of tires specific to a 2013 Chevy Malibu. Only one such car has come through this area in the past week, and if I can track it back to where it came from..."

The four agents inside held their breath, waiting as Riley typed away on her laptop, scanning every camera she could get her hands on and resorting to satellite data if she had to, grateful that Phoenix was able to maintain its network even through the outage. After a few minutes, she spoke again.

"Got it," she reported. "The car came from an abandoned office building about half an hour from here."

"Tac, move out," Jack ordered through coms, already moving towards the exit with his team on his heels. "And everybody remember, when we get there, there's an innocent kid in there somewhere; watch your fire. Let's go!"

* * *

Charlie was barely awake as he rested his head against the wall beside the radiator, the stress of his situation both exhausting him and denying him any rest. His father had left hours ago with Tiago, and no one had been in to see him since. He was starting to think that maybe his plan to stay out of Phoenix protection was a bad idea. After all, the second part of the plan—the useful part—did not seem to be happening. Although, he wasn't sure how long he'd been gone, so maybe he just hadn't given it enough time. It sure felt like he'd been there for days on end, but that didn't mean he had. It's not like he had a clock.

The door to the hallway slammed open, once again making the college student jolt. Two men walked in, neither of whom Charlie recognized. One of them went over to the desk and gathered up the computers on its surface, and the other went over to him, a set of keys in his hand. As he bent over the radiator to get into the tight space behind it where the young man's hands were restrained, Charlie forced himself to speak.

"What's going on?" he demanded, his voice trembling a lot more than he'd hoped it would.

"Your dad called," the man unlocking his cuffs replied as his companion left the room with the computers, freeing one wrist and allowing Charlie to pull his hands towards himself for the first time since he initially woke up. "He ran into a bit of a delay while running his last errand, so he and Tiago are going to have to go straight to our next location. He said to bring you along. Now, if you're good, then I'll let you walk out to the car of your own power, but if you're going to give me trouble, I'll drag you out; are you going to be good?"

Charlie swallowed hard and nodded his head quickly, prompting the man to give a half-smile. He grabbed Charlie's free wrist and reclasped the cuff around it, tethering his wrists together again, then wrapped his hand around his upper arm and pulled him to his feet, allowing him to get his balance before he started guiding him towards the door that led into the hallway. Charlie's eyes darted around, trying to piece together where it was he might be, as if that were somehow going to help him. The building was sparingly lit, mostly by lanterns, and looked completely abandoned. Before long, he was outside in the open air. The parking lot, a mix of gravel and cracked blacktop, was lit by a set of floodlights connected to a generator near the outside wall. There were about thirty people climbing into cars, vans, and trucks, and around him were more abandoned buildings, most of them looking condemned. It was a long shot, but if he could get free...

The man's grip on his arm had relaxed, since Charlie hadn't fought him. The other guards were getting in the cars; only a few were still standing out in the open. If he didn't get away now, he might never get another chance. Before he could talk himself out of it, he shoved himself away from the man holding him, and while he was stunned, he turned and kicked the man between his legs as hard as he could before running off, never looking back, even as he heard shouting behind him. His hands being bound made running harder, but he forced his legs to keep moving. He had to get away. He had to keep moving.

The fleeing captive ran blindly, taking random turns, darting down side streets and back alleys, not daring to look back. The darkness did little to help his cause, his eyes straining to pick out potential obstacles. His heart sank when he ran into a dead end, an alley cut off by a chain link fence that he couldn't hope to scale. He turned around to try and find another route, but he was instead met by four of Asmara's men.

"Give it up, kid," one of them snapped as the others converged on him, grabbing him and pulling him back towards the street, where a car had pulled up. Charlie fought against them viciously, but it was no use; there were too many of them. In no time, they'd shoved him into the back of the SUV and started driving him back the way he came. The young man slumped down, hanging his head in defeat, knowing he'd just lost what might well have been his last chance to escape. When they arrived back outside the abandoned office building that had been his prison, all of the vehicles had left except for two. The man Charlie had kicked and eight others were waiting for him, and the prisoner felt his stomach drop when he realized that every last one of them was armed—some of them with machine guns—and their hands were resting on their weapons.

The driver put the car in park, and then Charlie was pulled out of the car. Almost as soon as his foot hit the pavement, the man he'd kicked was yelling.

"You think that was funny?" he demanded furiously as his colleagues yanked the boy over to stand in front of him. Charlie didn't reply, deciding it would only make things worse if he tried. His jaw twitched as he stared at the older man, trying not to show how afraid he was, wringing his bound hands. The man smirked, then grabbed Charlie's shoulder with his left hand and punched him hard in the gut with his right. The younger man grunted in pain, doubling over and fighting to draw air back into his lungs.

"Derek," one of the men behind his attacker cautioned, his accented voice firm, shifting his feet and watching Charlie gasp desperately.

The man, Derek, ignored him, pulling his gun from its holster and pressing the muzzle up under Charlie's chin, forcing him to lift his head and whimper, his dark brown eyes showing the fear he tried so hard to hide.

"If you weren't the boss's kid, I'd kill you where you stand," he snarled in his face as Charlie grit his teeth nervously. He refused to respond, not wanting to push the furious older man any further. Derek smirked at him again, then pulled his gun back, allowing the young captive to let out a trembling breath. Just as he started to think he was off the hook, Derek changed his grip on the gun, turned back, and pistol-whipped him across the face. Charlie let out a painful yelp, feeling blood drip down his face from a cut on his cheekbone. Derek stepped forward and grabbed a fistful of his hair, pulling his head up.

"You better start watching yourself, kid," he warned ominously. "Next time, I might not be so forgiving."

Charlie's chest heaved, his heart pounding against his ribs, as he glared up at him. Derek smirked slightly, then shoved his head away, turning his attention to the two men holding the boy's arms.

"Get him in the car," he ordered. "Let's not keep the boss waiting."

Charlie looked down, his jaw twitching in frustration, allowing himself to be guided towards one of the two SUVs that had been waiting in the parking lot, defeat settling in his chest. He had made it about half way there when they heard tires squealing behind them. Everyone turned, surprised to see any activity in the area at all, and Charlie heard several muttered curses when they realized what they were looking at.

"Get the kid in the goddamn car!" Derek snapped, taking cover behind an old rusted-out forklift as six men in full body armor brandishing assault rifles jumped out of two vans, followed by Jack, Bozer, Cage, and a man Charlie assumed was Jack's partner, Mac. The terrorist's son felt relief flood through him, and, no longer resigned to his fate, he started fighting hard against the men on either side of him, trying to get free and run towards the Phoenix agents.

Across the parking lot, Mac, Jack, Cage, and Bozer took cover behind one of the vans as bullets started to fly.

"Everybody, look alive," Jack snapped into his coms. "We got a positive ID on Charlie Hill; watch your damn crossfire!"

Tac sounded off in his ear as he turned to look at his partner. "You got any ideas rollin' around in that big head of yours?" he asked. "Because as of right now, they've got the numbers, the kid, and possibly armor-piercing rounds, so any help is welcome at this point."

Mac looked around, desperately trying to think. There was almost nothing in the parking lot, save for the cars, the rusted-out forklift, and some weather-worn pallets, but most of those materials had about twelve armed men and a hostage between them and him. Everything he could think of with what he was close to could very easily hurt Charlie.

"Mac!" Jack pressed urgently.

"I'm thinking!" Mac snapped in frustration. Looking around more critically, he spotted a long-forgotten baseball lying amongst the gravel, partially buried.

"Okay, I've got a plan," he concluded finally. "Jack, I need your socks."

"You—what?!" Jack looked at him like he was insane.

"Just do it!" Mac shot back, urgency in his expression. "We don't have time!"

Jack growled in annoyance, then motioned to Cage to switch places with him so she could keep returning fire while he undid his laces and kicked his shoes off. Mac practically snatched his socks from his feet, ignoring his protests.

"Cover me," Mac ordered quickly.

"Mac—" Bozer sounded concerned, but Mac didn't stop, running over and grabbing the baseball, shoving it into his pocket and filling one sock partially with gravel. Jack had no choice but to follow him, providing him with cover fire before Mac got up and ran for the closest SUV.

"Son of a bitch..." Jack muttered to himself, chasing after him, trying not to step on anything in his bare feet.

Out in the middle of the parking lot, Charlie's struggles were proving useless. To his frustration, his captors had started to notice that the Phoenix operatives would not fire anywhere near him, and so a few were coming close to him, covering the two dragging him towards the SUV farthest from his potential rescuers and simultaneously guaranteeing themselves some level of safety.

"Let me go!" Charlie demanded, throwing his weight around wildly, wanting nothing more than to run towards the familiar agents. "Jack! Jack, help!"

"Just hang on, Charlie!" the agent's voice ordered from somewhere behind the cars.

Derek looked over at him from his place behind the forklift, glanced at the operatives across from him, and, seeing that most were taking cover, he ran towards their hostage, pushing past his colleagues to Charlie and shoving the young man back into the side of the SUV behind him.

"Get in the fucking car," he snarled in the boy's face, sending ice cold fear down his spine and putting an end to his fighting. The older man opened the back door of the SUV and shoved him inside, barely making sure his feet were clear before slamming the door shut.

"Let's move out; come on!" Derek snapped loudly so his colleagues could hear him.

As Asmara's men started to make their way back towards their vehicles, Jack stared at Mac as he shoved the baseball into his empty sock, and then pushed that firmly into the tailpipe of the car behind which they were crouched, having to push very hard to secure it and make sure it wasn't going to move. Jack gave him a strange look, but knew better than to ask questions, watching as he took the gravel-filled sock, twisted it above the bundle of stone, turned the sock inside-out back over itself, and repeated this process twice more before scurrying over to the next closest SUV—Jack on his heels—and jamming the bundle into that tailpipe, forcing it to fit snugly into the opening, again ensuring that it would not move.

"Get down!" Jack grabbed the back of Mac's jacket and yanked him back, stepping in front of him and firing at an approaching assailant, killing him instantly. Bullets quickly began flying in their direction, Asmara's men now alerted to their presence, so Jack grabbed Mac and pushed him back towards their van, taking cover again.

"What the hell did that do?" the former Delta demanded, pulling his shoes on again.

"Just wait," Mac smirked.

"The kid's in the farthest car," Keeler reported over coms, making Mac's smirk vanish as he groaned internally. "They're moving out; what do we do?"

"Do _not_ shoot at that car," Jack snapped. "Anyone hurts that kid, they answer to me. Riley, anything you can do?"

"Normally, yeah," Riley replied from her place cowering inside the armored transport, her voice carrying out the open back doors to Jack's left. "But not with no power in the entire city, I can't."

Across the parking lot, Asmara's men had loaded up, all of them that were still alive situated in their cars with Charlie positioned between two men in the back seat of the farthest SUV. The driver's and passenger's seats were both occupied, and Derek was sitting in the trunk amongst some boxes containing God-knew-what. The man on Charlie's right was leaning out the window and firing at the operatives, and Derek was rooting through one of the boxes in the trunk. Finally, he found what he was looking for.

"Let's go; let's go; let's go!" Charlie's assailant shouted, prompting the driver to start the engine, which tipped the other two SUVs to start up as well. Derek popped open the trunk just slightly, and Asmara's son heard him throw something with all his strength before slamming the trunk shut once more. The SUV jolted into gear, tearing out of the parking lot through the exit opposite the side Phoenix had arrived on, and Charlie felt his heart sink.

Meanwhile, on the other side of the lot, Mac heard something odd hit the broken asphalt under the van they were hiding behind, and looked underneath it. Immediately, his eyes grew wide.

"Riley, out! Get out of the van!" he ordered, the urgency in his voice making Riley—with computer in hand—move immediately, leaping out of the vehicle only for Mac to grab her arm, running full sprint away from the van, his team on his heels as he shouted, "Run!"

After only a few seconds, the grenade he'd spotted exploded, the force making the five of them fall.

"The fuck was that?!" Carter demanded over coms.

"Carter, stay on the cars," Mac ordered breathlessly. The SUVs were all leaving, but where the lead one—with Charlie inside—was speeding away, the two rear ones were slowing down to a stop, the engines sputtering and stalling. Tac, seeing their opening, converged on the cars, surrounding them and arresting those inside.

"Is everybody okay?" Jack asked, gasping, rolling over to look at his friends.

"I'm good," Cage reported, sitting up.

"Same here," Bozer nodded. "Ears are ringing, but I'm good."

"I'm fine," Mac told him dismissively.

"Riles," Jack prompted when their analyst didn't respond, her face displaying her shock. "You good?"

"Ye—ahh," she broke off when she shifted, drawing a sharp breath, and Mac immediately sat up, his eyes scanning her critically, spotting the blood-stained tear in her jeans, about midway up her right thigh, almost instantly. He examined it quickly in the light of their burning transport, making sure it wasn't as bad as it seemed.

"It's just a flesh wound," he concluded finally, tearing off a wide strip of his shirt and tying it around the wound, apologizing when Riley whimpered slightly. "Probably from a piece of shrapnel; you'll be fine."

"We got six of those assholes," Keeler reported, though he didn't sound very happy.

"And Charlie?" Jack prompted, still looking at Riley with barely-concealed concern on his face.

"We lost him," Keeler's words confirmed their fears, and Jack let a string of curse words fall from his lips. Mac looked at him pityingly, knowing that, if Charlie got hurt—or worse—before they could find him again, he would never forgive himself.

* * *

Charlie sat through the six hour car ride in silence, his head down, trembling in his seat, knowing that he was on thin ice and just trying to avoid drawing attention to himself. His thoughts were racing as his stomach churned, his mind tormenting him with the near-certainty of his fate: he was going to die. He would never see his family again. He'd just lost his one and probably only chance of escape, and Selam would not be happy when he heard what he'd done. He would likely kill him for it, or if he didn't, any kindness he'd shown him would almost certainly disappear. This knowledge made his heart pound, but he tried not to let his fear show on his face, not wanting to give his captors the satisfaction.

When they finally came to a stop and the driver put the car in park, Charlie cast a furtive glance out the window. He quickly realized that they were at an air strip; he could see what was probably their plane just a few yards away. The area, unlike the last one they were at, was well-lit, allowing him to see everything around him, and he knew immediately that trying to run would be pointless; there was nothing for miles, not even any city lights in the distance.

Behind him, Derek popped the trunk open and jumped out, and Charlie tensed when he heard his father's voice.

"Where's everybody else?" the terrorist demanded.

"Phoenix," Derek replied bitterly as the other four got out of the car, one leaning back in to pull Charlie out onto the tarmac. "They found us just as we were leaving. The other two cars never caught up with us."

Selam frowned, clearly unhappy to hear this, and turned to look at the others. Charlie saw something like relief on his face for a moment before he frowned, motioning for the man holding his son to bring him closer. Charlie's breath caught in his throat as he unwillingly moved closer to the terrorist, and he set his jaw, lifting his chin in stubborn defiance to hide his fear. Asmara hardly seemed to notice his expression, instead reaching out and gently turning the young man's face to the side, getting a look at his bruised, cut, swelling, and blood-streaked right cheekbone. Anger flared in the man's eyes, and he turned back to Derek.

"I thought I was clear that no harm was to come to him," he said darkly, making Derek shift uncomfortably.

"The little _genius_ did it to himself," the older man lied defensively, and Charlie was too on edge from his father's tone to refute the claim. "He tried to run when I took him outside, fell before he could get too far."

"Mmm," Asmara's frown deepened, studying the man before him before turning back to Charlie and forcing his face to soften.

"Charlie," his voice was gentle. "Is that what happened?"

The boy didn't answer, his eyes darting towards Derek, who was glaring at him threateningly. If he denied the claim, he knew the man would kill him, given the chance. But if he went along with the story, there was no telling what Selam would do to them both.

"It's okay, Charlie," his father's voice interrupted his thoughts. "Whatever happened, you're not in trouble. I promise. Did you get hurt the way Derek says you did?"

Charlie swallowed hard, internally scrambling to make a decision, before he finally shook his head in denial.

Selam smirked slightly as Derek glowered at the boy. "Someone hit you, didn't they?" the terrorist pressed, and his son nodded. Selam chuckled quietly.

"And, I'm pretty sure I know the answer, but would this 'someone' happen to be Derek?" Asmara asked.

"Yes," Charlie's voice was small, his stomach turning over at the gleam in his biological father's eyes.

"I thought so," Selam nodded, studying the young man before him. Then, without warning, he drew his gun from behind his back, aimed, and fired a round that lodged itself between Derek's eyes, killing him instantly. Charlie recoiled with a yell, his eyes wide as saucers as he stared down at the man's lifeless body, his chest heaving and stomach churning violently, his trembling worsening visibly.

But as panicked as Charlie was, Selam was equally as calm, and he turned to the remaining four new arrivals.

"Load up the plane," he ordered, taking Charlie's arm from the man beside him.

"You...you killed him," Charlie gasped, his voice ragged and expression horrified, eyes darting between the corpse and his captor.

"Of course I did," Selam shrugged. "Not only did he disobey a direct order, but he hurt you, and I told you: I'm not going to let you get hurt."

His son didn't answer, his heart hammering in terror, and Asmara laughed, the sound chilling Charlie to the bone.

"Relax, Charlie," he scolded gently. Relaxing was the last thing on the boy's mind. "I already told you you weren't in trouble, even if I believe that Derek wasn't lying when he said you tried to escape—and I do."

Charlie looked down, not meeting his eyes, wanting to deny the accusation but knowing that doing so would be pointless; he could ask anyone who was there, and they'd all tell the truth.

"I can't be mad at you for trying to escape, kiddo," Asmara continued, shaking his head. "You believe you're in danger; it's human instinct. Of course, if you try anything like that again, I'll have no choice but to impose some kind of consequence, but I'll let it go this time. Now, cheer up."

He put his arm around his young hostage's shoulders, making him tense up even further, and started guiding him towards the plane.

"I'm gonna take you for a little visit home."

* * *

 **Whoo! Finally got this one up. I've got 2 minutes before I've gotta go to class so I'll make this quick. Sorry this took so long; the chapter ended up being way longer than I thought it would be, and I got stuck a couple times (thank you, Haven126), and I ended up being, like, remarkably productive over break as far as school work, so that didn't leave all THAT much time for this. Plus I also ended up starting the bare bones of another MacGyver fic because my brain can't help itself, so y'all have THAT to look forward to. FUCK, that's my alarm. Gonna post before I go. Thank you all SO much for reading, I appreciate the shit out of all of you, and I hope you enjoyed! Until next chapter!**


	29. Power Struggles

Kyser sat in the stiff chair across from the beds containing his three wounded colleagues, his foot in a walking cast and elevated on another nearby chair, exhausted but desperate to stay awake. Simmons was closest to the door with a plastic tube connected to a ventilator shoved down his throat, in a medically-induced coma to try and help combat the swelling in his brain. Wyatt was farthest from the door, his leg elevated, his arm readjusted and in a cast, and a piece of his liver, which had been perforated by the bullet, now removed. Directly in front of the wounded medic was Ramirez. Of the three, he'd lost the most blood, and had two blood bags—one of which claiming Kyser as its source—hanging from his IV pole and feeding into his arm. He'd gone into stage three of hypovolemic shock before they managed to get the bleeding under control. He had a mask over his nose and mouth, desperately trying to feed his oxygen-starved organs. All three of them were still in critical condition. All three of them were still not stable enough to transfer. It was entirely possible that none of them would ever wake up.

Of course, the doctors told him that all three of them would be dead right now if he hadn't acted so quickly, if he hadn't made those tourniquets, if he hadn't kept them awake as long as he had. But that didn't make their lying in those beds, frail and broken, feel like it was any less his fault. If he'd been faster, if he'd been better...if he hadn't left Ramirez alone, then maybe...

"Hey, Kyser," the medic was jolted from his thoughts when he heard his name, and he turned to see Jack standing in the doorway, leaning up against the frame and watching him.

"Hey," Kyser forced a slight smile. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, we've kind of hit a wall for the time being," Jack admitted with a sigh. "Riley got a little beat up on our last outing, so she's back at Phoenix getting patched up. Then she's gotta charge her laptop, and while she's doing that, she's gonna do some techie stuff and find the assholes we were chasing, and Cage is gonna do her thing with the ones we managed to catch. Mac and I don't have much to do until they get something, so we decided to pop over, see what's going on with you. How're you holding up?"

"Okay," Kyser shrugged. "I've got either a second or third degree sprain; they can't tell for sure right now because all the imaging is being reserved for the life-or-death cases to conserve power. They're not sure how long the generators are going to last. That's why I'm staying here; if the power fails, someone's gotta jump in and keep Simmons breathing manually, and all the staff are busy."

"Well, hopefully, you won't have to worry about that too much," Jack sighed, rubbing his neck.

"Wait, where's Mac?" the medic asked, just realizing that the younger agent wasn't there, despite Jack saying they'd both come to the hospital.

"He's trying to help get the hospital some more sustainable power," Jack shrugged. "What generators Phoenix isn't using have already been lent out to this and other hospitals, so Mac's gonna try and help make up the difference."

"How?"

"Knowing him, he's probably going to build a nuclear reactor out of bubble gum, shoelaces, and belt buckles," Jack rolled his eyes good naturedly, making Kyser laugh.

"Actually, it's solar panels out of glass plates, titanium dioxide, and blueberry juice," Mac corrected, coming in from the hall, his signature half-smile on his face. "Among other things. Won't be as efficient as a silicon cell, but it'll do the trick, in theory. It'll at least be able to power the ventilator, the size I'm making."

"What happened to you?" Kyser frowned at Mac, noting his torn shirt.

"Improvising," Mac shrugged.

"Which reminds me," Jack turned to his partner, "you owe me a new pair of socks."

"Do I want to know?" Kyser raised an eyebrow and smirked.

"A story for another time," Mac promised, then nodded in the direction of their wounded colleagues. "How are they?"

"Not good," the medic shook his head gravely, scratching the bandage on the inside of his left arm, where they'd drawn his blood to give to Ramirez. "None of them are stable, and none of them are guaranteed to wake up again. Simmons has brain swelling; he's in a coma right now, as you can see. Wyatt had a compound fracture to his left arm and now has a couple pins in there, and he's now down half a lobe of his liver. Ramirez was the worst, though. Maybe not in trauma, but...he lost too much blood. He's barely hanging on, and even if he does wake up, the damage might already be done."

"They'll be fine, Kyser," Jack hoped he sounded more certain than he felt, trying to ignore how his stomach was churning at the sight of Simmons, lying nearly lifeless in his hospital bed, a machine breathing for him, a dark, angry bruise consuming half his face. He used to joke that his friend never got hurt because he stole everyone else's luck—hence the reason Jack seemed to be the recipient of all the injuries when they were on missions together. He would have gladly given him what little luck he had left if it would have kept him out of that hospital bed. "They'd be dead right now if it weren't for you."

"That's what the doctors tell me," Kyser sighed, rubbing his tired eyes with one hand.

"They're right," Mac's voice was insistent. "Kyser, a situation like that...none of you should have made it out of there alive, but here you all are. Yeah, some of you are a little worse for wear, but the fact that any of you made it is a miracle, and the fact that these three still have a fighting chance is because of you."

Kyser didn't seem convinced, and he opened his mouth to say as much, but cut himself off when the emergency lights flickered. Instead, a curse fell off his lips and he jumped clumsily to his feet, ignoring both his crutches and Mac and Jack's protests, limping over to Simmons' side and grabbing the self-inflating bag next to the bed, ready to attach it and take over when the machine failed. Sure enough, even the emergency lights turned off, and with them went the ventilator, so Kyser quickly disconnected the machine and attached the bag, squeezing it evenly and steadily to keep his colleague's lungs inflating.

"You got an ETA on those solar panels?" Kyser asked, suddenly wide awake.

"Another...fifteen minutes for it to set, twenty-five minutes for assembly, ten for installation, and then...well, they need the sun to work, Kyser..." Mac gestured to the darkness outside the window. Sunrise wasn't for another hour and a half. "I've come up with a battery to keep it working after that, but we need the sun first."

"Do what you can," Kyser nodded, his eyes fixed on Simmons as Jack stepped out into the hall, trying to find out what happened. "I'll keep him alive as long as you need."

"Excuse me!" Jack grabbed one of the nurses rushing past. "What happened? Did the generator give out?"

"It shouldn't have, but it did," the nurse confirmed with a nod, looking a little impatient to get back to work. "A quarter of the building has lost power entirely; the other generators are keeping the rest of it lit but not for much longer."

"How many patients do you have in this wing that need power?" Mac asked.

"Four, including him," the nurse nodded in Simmons' direction. "The rest got transferred out of the city. Now I've gotta go see what I can do to help; someone will be back to help you in a few minutes."

With this, he rushed off, leaving Mac and Jack in the hallway.

"How many of those panels can you rig up?" Jack asked his partner once they were alone, save for the hospital staff rushing about.

"Five," Mac replied, looking distressed.

"Okay, that's good; we've got one left over," Jack nodded.

"Yeah, except I was only able to rig up capacitors—batteries—for three of them," his partner told him grimly. "Which means once the sun goes down, one of these people is gonna be out of luck."

"We'll take the gimp one," Kyser called from inside the room.

"Kyser, no," Jack began, turning towards his long-time friend, but the medic cut him off.

"Would you rather it go to some innocent civilian?" he challenged, glancing up at him while keeping his steady rhythm with the self-inflating bag. "The staff and I can keep Simmons alive at night until he's ready to move. He'd say the same thing, and you know it."

"Kyser—" Again, Kyser interrupted him, his eyes and tone leaving no room for argument.

"Stop wasting time fighting me on this, Dalton," he growled. "Go see what you can do to help out the other patients, and Mac, see if there's anything you can do to fix that generator. Go!"

Jack's jaw twitched, some part of him wanting to snap back at him, but instead, he set his teeth and dipped his head, grabbing Mac's arm and pulling him out of the room. They had work to do.

* * *

As Charlie sat onboard the private plane carrying him, four of the men who'd brought him there, his father, and Tiago to their next destination, he kept his eyes glued to the table between him and the seat across from him, still trying to get the image of Derek falling dead right in front of him out of his head. His cuffed hands were shaking on the tabletop, and his heart was beating far too fast. He was both hyper aware of the conversations going on around him and unable to pick out even a word that was said. The side of his face was throbbing painfully, though the cut on his cheekbone had stopped bleeding. The murder kept replaying in his head on a loop; regardless of what he'd done to him, the man was dead, and Charlie couldn't help but feel responsible. If he'd just gone along with Derek's story, he likely still would have been alive. A man was dead, and that was his fault. And to make matters worse, he was trapped with the killer himself. He'd been afraid of Asmara the whole time, knowing what he'd done and what he was capable of, but seeing him in action had been more than he'd bargained for. He needed to start picking his battles very carefully; one wrong move, and he'd be the one with the bullet in his brain. If his stupid plan didn't work—and it admittedly was not looking good—then he was done for. For the first time, he started to realize exactly how much danger he was really in; until that moment, he'd been certain he'd get out of there quickly. Now, he wasn't so sure.

The young man visibly flinched back when his father sat down across from him, pulling his hands away and pressing himself into the seat, not looking up.

"Charlie, I've told you, you don't have to be afraid," Asmara's voice was gentle, but it just made his son's stomach churn. Asmara let out a sigh, then pulled a set of keys from his pocket and reached across the small table, grabbing his son's right forearm and pulling his hands closer, not unaware that the young man's breathing became audibly louder when he did so. With an almost sad smirk, the terrorist unlocked the handcuffs binding his wrists together and let go of his arm. Charlie yanked his hands back immediately, his head down.

"Charlie, I want you to look at me," the young captive's jaw twitched when he heard his father's smooth, soothing voice. He didn't move, rubbing his wrists under the table. When Asmara spoke again, his voice was still soothing, but there was an undeniable warning in it as well, "Charlie. Look at me."

Asmara's son closed his eyes for a moment, taking a quick deep breath before slowly lifting his head, forcing himself to meet his father's eyes, reminding himself that he needed to pick his battles. The sight of the older man made his stomach lurch, but he swallowed hard and held his gaze, not even bothering to hide his fear this time. Asmara gave him a somewhat kind smile.

"I know that what happened on the tarmac must have scared you," he began, and Charlie fought the urge to scoff at him incredulously, "but I can assure you that you are perfectly safe with me. You're my son; I would never hurt you, nor would I let anyone else hurt you. I know you don't understand, now, but one day you will; all of this was and is necessary."

"For what?" the disbelief in Charlie's voice was obvious.

"For fixing a broken system," Selam replied simply, as if that explained everything. Charlie bit down on his tongue to keep from saying anything else, knowing whatever he said would just make him angry. Asmara studied him for a moment, then let out a sigh.

"Wait here," he ordered, as if the boy had much choice. Charlie watched him stand up and move towards the front end of the plane, vanishing from his sight only to return a few moments later with a paper towel, a glass of water, and what appeared to be a washcloth acting as a little pouch—for ice, most likely, the boy realized. His father resumed his seat in front of him, dipped the paper towel in the water, and leaned forward. Charlie flinched back, but Selam followed him, reaching out and gently grabbing his jaw, starting to wipe the blood away.

"You know, Charlie, I don't want you to be afraid of me," Asmara told him quietly. "I'd so prefer if we could get along. I want to get to know you. You are my son, after all, and I've missed out on so much of your life...haven't been there to help you, to guide you...I wish you'd stop fighting me."

"And I wish you'd let me go," Charlie's voice trembled when he spoke, unable to stop himself, and the fact that he'd spoken at all seemed to surprise the older man, "but we don't always get what we want."

Asmara gave a small laugh, though it didn't reach his eyes, and released his grip on his son's jaw. Charlie felt ice snake down his spine as those eyes bored right into him.

"You're making it very hard for me to believe I can save you, Charlie," he told the boy dangerously. "I've been nothing but kind to you, and—"

Choosing battles be damned; he couldn't let that one slide.

"Kind?" he interrupted his father with fury flaring in his chest, overpowering his fear. Even for his own survival, he couldn't play along with that. Not after everything that had happened, everything the older man had put him through. " _Kind_? Is _that_ what you think you've been? Let's recap this, shall we? I'll even be nice and keep it to since I've known you even existed: In that time, in just four months, you came to my house, tried to murder my mother and two other people, and could have easily killed me and my little sister in the process. Then, you tried to blow up the LA Convention Center, potentially killing thousands of innocent people. You tried to kill Jack Dalton, the man who saved me and my mom and my sister from _you_ when you came and shot at us in our home. Because of you, my family had to go into hiding, and I haven't seen or spoken to them since. Then you came and found me at school, broke into the apartment I share with my girlfriend—and I don't even want to think about what could have happened if she came home before me—attacked me, knocked me out, and kidnapped me, took me away from everything good I had left in my life. You said you weren't going to hurt me, and you did. You said no one else would hurt me, and they did. What on _Earth_ did you expect was going to happen? That you'd do all that to me and I'd just run up and hug you like we've been family this whole time? No. Being part of someone's family is a privilege, not a right. You just so happening to share DNA with me doesn't make you my dad. Where were you when I was learning how to ride a bike? When I was afraid of the monsters under my bed? When I won my school spelling bee? When I learned how to drive? When I won my cross-country regional competition only to fall and break my arm half way through nationals? When I got into Stanford?"

"Rotting in a prison that your mother and your good buddy Jack Dalton put me in," Selam replied, his voice a low warning growl, and while the look on his face did scare his son, it didn't scare him enough to make him back down.

"Serving a sentence for _treason_ and _murder_ ," Charlie growled right back, his intensity matching his father's. In fact, his anger and frustration had him looking more like the man across from him than he ever had, and not in the way Asmara had hoped he would. Still, the young man kept his voice down, well aware that the other conversations were starting to die down and they were drawing a few curious, uneasy looks. "What happened to you was your own fault; don't blame your victims for the outcome. That's called being a coward. _My_ dad taught me to own my actions, good and bad. Yet another lesson I'm glad to have learned that I clearly wouldn't have learned from you. If you're going to treat me like a prisoner, keep me handcuffed and hit me, fine; just don't pretend like you're treating me like your son, then. You can't have it both ways."

By this point, looking at the rage building in his father's expression—rage like he'd seen in him right before he shot a man right before his eyes—Charlie knew he was in trouble, but his anger would not subside, even as his fear grew to match it. He knew that if he didn't stop and redirect that anger—both his and his father's—he could very well end up like Derek. Thinking fast, he gave a disgusted smirk and leaned back in his seat.

"See?" he gestured emphatically towards the man across from him, hiding his trembling behind flourishes. "Exactly my point. You keep telling me that you don't want to hurt me, that you want to get to know me, that you want me to trust you, that you understand why I'm so frustrated and angry and scared—that it's because my mom lied to me about you. And yet, here you are, with that look on your face, about to prove my point _again_. You hurt me before, and you're about to hurt me again. And you'll call it discipline, but we both know it's not; it's just you being exactly who everyone told me you were. You can knock me around all you want, but it won't get me on your side. It'll just prove me and everybody else right."

By that time, everyone else's conversations were continuing only for show, every set of eyes onboard locked on him in shock. No one—perhaps least of all Charlie himself—had expected that from him. Asmara glared at him furiously, though his words appeared to be giving the man pause. Charlie kept his poker face, his hands tight fists to hide their shaking as they rested on the tabletop, trying to mask how hard his heart was pounding, even with all of his pent-up anger and frustration starting to give way to terror once more. Still, he knew that some of that fear was visible in his eyes. Just as Charlie hoped he would, Asmara was just staring at him, debating between kicking his ass and consequently proving him right, or proving him wrong by not doing anything to him and consequently letting him get off with a warning for speaking to him that way. Either way, the terrorist was giving him some kind of victory, which Charlie knew he'd want to avoid at all costs. The young man hardly dared to breathe, his bravado quickly fading. He honestly didn't care which option is father chose—though he obviously had a preference—as long as the little dilema he'd presented him with kept the man from even considering the third option: making Charlie's the next body to be dumped carelessly on the tarmac.

It felt like they sat there for an eternity, staring at each other, waiting for someone to make the first move. All the conversation, even the fake conversation, had ceased, or maybe Charlie just couldn't hear it over the pounding in his ears. He held his father's gaze, knowing he couldn't be the one to break first. Finally, Asmara gave a smirk and a laugh, the sound chilling his son to the bone.

"You're right," the terrorist allowed finally, sounding good-natured although his eyes were dangerous. "You're absolutely right."

"What?" Charlie was _not_ expecting that response.

"You heard me," Selam grinned at him, and Charlie felt all the air leave his lungs, his shoulders tightening in preparation. "I've treated you like my son every chance I got, and you've done nothing to act like my son. And you're right; you can't have it both ways. If you insist on acting like a prisoner, who am I to behave otherwise?"

As he spoke, he picked the handcuffs up off the tabletop and replaced them tightly around Charlie's wrists—tight enough to make him grimace and suppress a whimper—grabbing his arm when he tried to pull away. His eyes, so much like his son's in shape and shade, were shooting daggers at the boy, anger blazing in their dark brown depths. Charlie hardly dared breathe, bracing himself for what he knew was coming.

Sure enough, with no warning, Selam got to his feet, stepping out into the middle of the aisle of the spacious private plane, still gripping Charlie's arm and then yanking him out of his seat, not caring when the young man cried out and fell to the floor. On the contrary—once he was down, Selam seemed intent to keep him there, kicking him with all his strength over and over again as Charlie tried to curl up to protect his organs, a task that proved to be near impossible with his father maintaining a death grip on his right forearm, stretching his bound hands up above his head. It took everything in him not to fight back, knowing that doing so would just make it worse. Yes, he knew it would hurt, but it was better than being dead.

It felt like hours before Selam finally ceased his assault. By that time, Charlie was gasping desperately for air but unable to get any, his diaphragm spasming. His father knelt down beside him, still not releasing his grip on his arm, and Charlie tried to shift away from him, but Asmara just growled and yanked him closer, making the young man give a strangled yelp.

"I suggest you apologize, Charlie," Asmara hissed, his voice low as his son cowered away from him, trying to breathe evenly. When the boy didn't answer, Asmara got impatient and punched him—hard—across the face, making him give a broken cry of pain. Selam grabbed his jaw and turned his head, forcing their eyes to meet. "I said, I suggest you apologize."

"I'm sorry," Charlie forced the words past his lips, still just trying to breathe. "Please...please, I'm sorry..."

Asmara chuckled, releasing his jaw only to pat him twice on the cheek. Charlie finally got his diaphragm working properly again, and his breaths were ragged and full of terror.

"Apology accepted," the terrorist grinned down at him. "Now, when you don't feel like being my prisoner anymore, and want to go back to being my son, you let me know. Until then, enjoy the ride."

With this, he finally let go of the boy's arm—the skin was already starting to bruise—and stood up, cleaning up the table they'd been sitting at as Charlie coughed and groaned on the floor, spitting out blood and carefully wiping at his eyes. Selam glanced at him, then turned to his men, who were all still silently watching them.

"Tiago," his voice was sharp and made his son flinch on the ground as Tiago looked up from his crossword expectantly. Charlie, his ears ringing and barely able to keep his eyes open, heard his father say something in Portuguese, his words followed by him walking away and Tiago getting up. Mac's former tormentor came over to where Charlie was lying, grabbing his left arm near his shoulder and pulling him upright even as Charlie tried to get away. Tiago hardly seemed to notice his struggles, hauling him to his feet and shoving him into one of the set of two seats behind the pair he and Selam had been sitting in before their fight. He fastened the younger man's seatbelt low and tight across his lap, then took the seat across from him. There was no table between them, this time, and Charlie's heart leapt into his throat when he saw the man pull out his gun, letting it rest casually in his lap. Tiago's eyes settled on him, cold and uncaring, and Charlie squirmed under his gaze for several minutes before he set his jaw and resigned himself to looking out the window, watching them slice through the clouds and looking down at the vague land below, thinking about his situation and his options.

To say he was screwed was an understatement. However much he hated it, Asmara thinking of him as his son, trying to gain his trust, had given him some level of protection, but that was gone, now. He didn't like the odds of Phoenix finding him again—not with this big of a move. He just hoped that Amy would come through for him, that his stupid plan wasn't as stupid as he was starting to think it was. He realized that he probably hadn't been missing for nearly as long as he thought he'd been, so there was still a chance that it could work. And, frankly, if it didn't, he was as good as dead, because he knew that, even to save his life, he couldn't go along with whatever Selam was planning. He was running out of time.

If he didn't get found soon, he probably never would.

* * *

 **I wanted this to be longer, but I'm well aware that I'm taking forever, so here it is. Sorry again, guys; I'm gearing up for graduation and trying to get a lot of stuff done in an uncomfortably short time. But I'm still writing every chance I get. And after next week, I won't have any more labs, so I'll only have class once a day in the morning and I'll be able to write after that. Bonus: My one and only final is on the 2nd day of finals, which means I have a week between then and graduation when I have nothing but time.**


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